In their Wisdom by C.P. Snow

In Mrs Underwood's bright, pot-pourri-smelling drawing-room in Victoria Road, she and three others were playing bridge. There was not much else to do. There was nothing more to say: which didn't prevent, as the game went on, a good deal more being said.

Round the table, the other three were Hillmorton's daughter Elizabeth, Julian Underwood and Mr. Skelding. The time was five thirty in the afternoon. That morning Mr. Skelding had heard that probate in the will had been held up: a caveat had been granted for six months. Six months was a long time, someone had said. Mr. Skelding had told them, with unctuous briskness, that they had to assume that there was going to be an appeal against the will.