The fact that Cheryl—and no matter if with the utmost innocence and naïvete—was virtually accusing her mother-in-law’s prospective husband of murder was of course absolutely incredible. It was also a very awkward thing to cope with according to the established rules of etiquette. I don’t know who turned the whitest there, Major Tillyard himself or Irene . . . or Cheryl as she realized, without understanding, that she must have done something pretty awful. She looked from one blank face to another—at Irene’s, at Mr. Purcell’s, at mine.
“Have I . . . I’m terribly sorry . . .” she stammered.
Major Tillyard took a very deep breath and ran his finger around under his collar.
“It’s . . . it’s the timing that makes it . . . well, rather overwhelming, Cheryl,” he said.
The color came gradually
