'W-what a beastly mess!'
Then he shoved a space for himself on the table, among glasses and papers, and began to make pictures for Marchese Peppino.
It was about this time, early in March, that the Crevequers took to quarrelling. It was a thing not usual with them, because they liked, of all things, a pleasant harmony. Rows, as they observed, made them feel ill. But at this time they developed a new touchiness; possibly Lent was partly accountable. Tommy wrangled with his editor, disputed truculently with the good-tempered Luli, assumed a mien of impertinent defiance towards his more urgent creditors, and snapped at Betty, who snapped back, and then they would stammer rude and unpleasant comments on each other for a minute or two—it took them longer to quarrel than it takes people who can fling their remarks unhaltingly straight from the lips—until one or other was ashamed and said:
'D-dry up.'
They quarrelled once about Marchese Peppino. Betty referred to it to Warren Venables, who, as usual, did not pursue the subject with enthusiasm. When Venables had left them, Tommy, sitting on the table with his hands in his pockets, looked down at his sister rather moodily.
'Wish you'd let my shop alone, Betty. Venables doesn't care a hang about it—can't you see?'
The surprise in Betty's melancholy eyes testified to the rarity of the ill-tempered tone; particularly it was rare from one of them to the other.
'Well—what does it matter, though?'
Tommy was frowning.
'It does. It bores him to hear about it. It doesn't amuse him; he doesn't think it's funny—and it's not particularly—and w-what's the good of making bores of ourselves?'