“Isn’t it?” said Clementina, conscious of a greater gap than usual in the back of her blouse, and struggling with one hand to reconcile button and hole. “What on earth do you know about it? Just tell me, are you a woman or am I?”
Tommy laid down his fork with a sigh. “You’re an angel, Clementina, and this sole was delicious; and I wish there were more of it.”
She took the tray from his knees and put it on a side table. Tommy turned to Quixtus, who sat Sphinx-like on a straight-backed chair, and expressed his regret at not having been able to attend his great-uncle’s funeral.
“You missed an interesting ceremony,” said Quixtus.
Tommy laughed. “I suppose the old man didn’t leave me anything?”
He had heard nothing privately about the will, and, as probate had not yet been taken out, the usual summary had not been published in the newspapers.
“I’m afraid not,” said Quixtus. “Did you expect anything?”
“Oh Lord, no!” laughed Tommy, honestly.
“Then more fool you, and more horrid old man he,” said Clementina.
There was a pause. Quixtus, not feeling called upon to defend his defunct and mocking kinsman, said nothing. Clementina drew the crumpled yellow packet of Maryland tobacco and papers from a pocket in her skirt (she insisted on having pockets in her skirts) and rolled a cigarette. When she had licked it, she turned to Quixtus.