She was looking away from the others and seemed to be studying the wall panels with a dispassionate gaze.
Edith sat in a grandfather chair, bolt upright.
She was knitting with incredible energy, her lips pressed tightly together.
The most beautiful thing in the room to look at was Magda and Eustace.
They looked like a portrait by Gainsborough. They sat together on the sofa - the dark handsome boy with a sullen expression on his face, and beside him, one arm thrust out along the back of the sofa, sat Magda, the Duchess of Three Gables in a picture gown of taffeta with one small foot in a brocaded slipper thrust out in front of her.
Philip frowned.
"Sophia," he said, "I'm sorry, but we are discussing family matters which are of a private nature."
Miss de Haviland's needles clicked. I prepared to apologise and retreat. Sophia forestalled me.
Her voice was clear and determined.
"Charles and I," she said, "hope to get married.
I want Charles to be here."
"And why on earth not?" cried Roger, springing up from his pouf with explosive energy. "I keep telling you, Philip, there's nothing private about this!
The whole world is going to know tomorrow or the day after.
Anyway, my dear boy," he came and put a friendly hand on my shoulder, "you know all about it.
You were there this morning."
"Do tell me," cried Magda, leaning forward. "What is it like at Scotland Yard. One always wonders.
A table. A desk? Chairs?
What kind of curtains?
No flowers, I suppose?
A dictaphone?"
"Put a sock in it, mother," said Sophia. "And anyway, you told Vavasour Jones to cut that Scotland Yard scene.
You said it was an anticlimax."
"It makes it too like a detective play," said Magda.
"Edith Thompson is definitely a psychological drama - or psychological thriller - which do you think sounds best?"
"You were there this morning?" Philip asked me sharply. "Why?
Oh, of course - your father -" He frowned.
I realised more clearly than ever that my presence was unwelcome, but Sophia's hand was clenched on my arm.
Clemency moved a chair forward.
"Do sit down," she said.
I gave her a grateful glance and accepted.
"You may say what you like," said Miss de Haviland apparently going on from where they had all left off, "but I do think we ought to respect Aristide's wishes. When this will business is straightened out, as far as I am concerned, my legacy is entirely at your disposal, Roger."
Roger tugged his hair in a frenzy.
"No, Aunt Edith.
No!" he cried.
"I wish I could say the same," said Philip, "but one has to take every factor into consideration -"
"Dear old Phil, don't you understand? I'm not going to take a penny from anyone."
"Of course he can't!" snapped Clemency.
"Anyway, Edith," said Magda. "If the will is straightened out, he'll have his own legacy."
"But it can't possibly be straightened out in time, can it?" asked Eustace.
"You don't know anything about it, Eustace," said Philip.
"The boy's absolutely right," cried Roger. "He's put his finger on the spot.
Nothing can avert the crash.
Nothing."
He spoke with a kind of relish.
"There is really nothing to discuss," said Clemency.
"Anyway," said Roger, "what does it matter?"
"I should have thought it mattered a good deal," said Philip, pressing his lips together.
"No," said Roger.
"No!
Does anything matter compared with the fact that father is dead?