But Stephen was fantastically preoccupied with the refuse on the scullery floor, with coming explanations about the sack. “There’ll be an awful row,” he said⁠ ⁠… “the hell of a mess down there⁠ ⁠… what shall I say about the sack?” Then, suddenly, “What shall I say, John?⁠ ⁠… Think of something, for God’s sake!”

John Egerton jumped. The wild incongruity of Stephen’s question scarcely occurred to him. He tried solemnly to think of something to say about the sack. He would be helpful here, surely. But no thought came. His mind was a confused muddle of nightdresses and inquests and naked legs and Margery Byrne⁠—Margery Byrne arriving quietly on the doorstep⁠—Margery Byrne scandalized, agonized, hideously, fatally ill.

“I don’t know, Stephen,” he said feebly⁠—“I don’t know⁠ ⁠… say you⁠ ⁠… oh, anything.”