“Any one who arrives after Adelaide is apt to be in wrong,” observed her husband.
“Well, I think it’s awfully incompetent always to be waiting for other people,” she returned, just laying her hand an instant on his shoulder to indicate that he alone was privileged to make fun of her.
“That perhaps is what the Waynes think,” he answered.
Mathilde’s heart sank a little at this. She knew her mother did not like to be kept waiting for dinner.
“When I was a young man—” began Mr. Lanley.
“It was the custom,” interrupted Adelaide in exactly the same tone, “for a hostess to be in her drawing-room at least five minutes before the hour set for the arrival of the guests.”
“Adelaide,” her father pleaded, “I don’t talk like that; at least not often.”
“You would, though, if you didn’t have me to correct you,” she retorted. “There’s the bell at last; but it always takes people like that forever to get their wraps off.”
“It’s only ten minutes past eight,” said Farron, and Mathilde blessed him with a look.
Mrs. Wayne came quickly into the room, so fast that her dress floated behind her; she was in black and very grand. No one would have supposed that she had murmured to Pete just before the drawing-room door was opened, “I hope they haven’t run in any old relations on us.”