Surfeit of Lampreys by Ngaio Marsh

than usually vague and rather dispirited. Roberta, to her discomfiture, repeatedly caught his eye. Henry stared at her with an expression which she was unable to interpret until it occurred to her that he looked not at but through her. Roberta became less self-conscious and listened more attentively to the rest of the family. With every turn of their preposterous conversation her four years of separation from them seemed to diminish and Roberta felt herself slip, as of old, into an attitude of mind that half accepted the mad logic of their scheming. They discussed the suitability of a charade—Lady Charles and her children with passionate enthusiasm, Lord Charles with an air of critical detachment. Roberta wondered what Lord Charles really felt about the crisis and whether she merely imagined that he wore a faintly troubled air. His face was at no time an expressive one. It was a pale oval face. Shortsighted eyes that looked dimly friendly, a colourless moustache and an oddly youthful mouth added nothing to its distinction, and yet it had distinction of a gentle kind. His voice was pitched rather high and he had a trick of letting his sentences die away while he opened his eyes widely and stroked the top of his head. Roberta realized that though she liked him very much she had not the smallest inkling as to what sort of thoughts went on in his mind. He was an exceedingly remote individual.
    â€œWell anyway,” Frid was saying, “we can but try. Let’s fill him up with sherry and do a charade. How about Lady Godiva? Henry the palfrey, Daddy the horrid husband, one of the twins Peeping Tom, and the rest of you the nice-minded populace.”
    â€œIf you think I’m going to curvet round the drawing-room with you sitting on my back in the rude nude—” Henry began.
    â€œYour hair’s not long enough, Frid,” said Patch.
    â€œI didn’t say I ’d be Lady Godiva.”
    â€œWell, you can hardly expect Mummy to undress,” said Colin, “and anyway you meant yourself.”
    â€œDon’t be an ass, darling,” said Lady Charles, “of course we can’t do Lady Godiva. Uncle G. would be horrified.”
    â€œHe might mistake it for a Witches’ Sabbath,” said Henry, “and think we were making fun of Aunt V.”
    â€œIf Frid rode on you, I expect he would,” said Patch.
    â€œWhy?” asked Mike. “What do witches ride on, Daddy?”
    Lord Charles gave his high-pitched laugh. Henry stared thoughtfully at Patch.
    â€œIf that wasn’t rude,” he said, “it would be almost funny.”
    â€œWell, why not do a Witches’ Sabbath?” asked Stephen, “Uncle G. hates Aunt V. being a witch. I daresay it would be a great success. It would show we were on his side. We needn’t make it too obvious, you know. It would be a word charade. Ipswich for instance.”
    â€œHow would you do Ips?” asked Colin.
    â€œPatch could waggle hers,” said Henry.
    â€œYou are beastly , Henry,” stormed Patch. “It’s foul of you to say I’m fat. Mummy!”
    â€œNever mind, darling, it’s only puppy-fat. I think you’re just right.”
    â€œWe could do Dulwich,” said Stephen. “The first syllable could be a week-end at Deepacres. Everybody yawning.”
    â€œThat would be really rude,” said his mother seriously.
    â€œIt wouldn’t be far wrong,” said Lord Charles.
    â€œI know, Charlie, but it would never do. Don’t let’s get all wild and silly about it. Let’s just think sensibly of a good funny charade. Not too vulgar and not insulting.”
    There followed a long silence broken by Frid.
    â€œI know,” Frid cried, “we’ll just be ourselves with bums in the house. It could be a breakfast scene with Baskett coming in to say: ‘A person to see you, m’lord.’ You wouldn’t mind, would you, Baskett?”
    With that