Percival Fortescue, leaning against the mantelpiece, was addressing the meeting. “It’s all very well,” said Percival. “But the whole position is most unsatisfactory. The police come and go and don’t tell us anything. One supposes they’re pursuing some line of research. In the meantime everything’s at a standstill. One can’t make plans, one can’t arrange things for the future.” “It’s all so inconsiderate,” said Jennifer. “And so stupid.” “There still seems to be this ban against anyone leaving the house,” went on Percival. “Still, I think among ourselves we might discuss future plans. What about you, Elaine? I gather you’re going to marry—what’s-his-name—Gerald Wright? Have you any idea when?” “As soon as possible,” said Elaine. Percival frowned. “You mean, in about six months’ time?” “No, I don’t. Why should we wait six months?” “I think it would be more decent,” said Percival. “Rubbish,” said Elaine. “A month. That’s the longest we’ll wait.”
