Ada sipped at her tea as the speaker droned on about the poor starving artists and what they, as a community, could do to support them. They didn't look starving. All the artists she'd ever met* were so thin you could count the bones but the chaps with studios here looked as if they could stand to miss a few banquets.
The River Terrace complex housed sixteen studios – painters, sculptors and potters – the rent of which was almost twice that of her house. Hardly the grounds for starving, even if Frances Beamish's terrier could paint better pictures.
Ada put the tea cup under her chair and reached into her handbag for her crime novel. There were one or two people she wanted to murder herself, not least of which was whomever made that tea.
*except one: Lady Cottington was well off, well fed and mean as a clipper's sixpence.