"Oh, I do beg everyone's pardon," Marguerite drawled languidly, returning to her former accent. "When I am not well, I have a habit of becoming French. If you will be so kind as to excuse me." She was perfectly caustic and biting, and looked down her nose at the company before retiring to a small bedroom, Mr. Abbott in tow. She made no remark in response to the generous comments of her erstwhile lover's friend. Instead, she decided to smirk broadly in his direction, her smile more of a threat than any conveyance of good will.
"Oh, isn't this quite the game?" she cried when the door had been properly shut. "I am sure Molière could not have penned anything more absurd than is this." She laughed heartily, much in the same, tinkling fashion that she had done when first she had met Mr. Abbott. "I see you have an acquaintance with this churl, no? Oh, that is just like you, is it not? You ought to have treated patients in the asylum, you know. Surely you could find interesting specimens such as myself and the idiot." She laughed again. It felt so much better to just remove all pretense, to fling it to the breeze, so to speak (though one couldn't even open a window to catch a breeze in this house!).
"Oh, but the look on your face, dear John! It is so utterly delicious! Do smile, do! We will all dance soon--I know it." Mirthfully, she took his hands and pretended to waltz with him. The strangeness in the young Cullen was telling, she knew--but of what? And what did it matter? At least she was finally finding some amusement.