Meanwhile Swetnam had gone on, to spread the tale which was to bring indignation and affliction into tens of thousands of respectable homes.
IV
Janet came softly and timidly into the drawing-room.
"They are gone?" she questioned. "I thought I heard the front-door."
"Yes, thank goodness!" Hilda exclaimed candidly, disdaining the convention (which Edwin still had in respect) that a weakness in family ties should never be referred to, beyond the confines of the family, save in urbane terms of dignity and regret excusing so far as possible the sinner. But in this instance the immense ineptitude of the Benbows had so affected Edwin that, while objecting to his wife's outbreak, he could not help giving a guffaw which supported it. And all the time he kept thinking to himself:
"Imagine that d----d pietistic rascal dragging the miserable shrimp up here to apologise to George!"
He was ashamed, not merely of his relatives, but somehow of all humanity. He could scarcely look even a chair in the face. The Benbows had left behind them desolation, and this desolation affected everything, and could be tasted on the tongue. Janet of course instantly noticed it, and felt that she ought not to witness the shaming of her friends. Moreover, her existence now was chiefly an apology for itself.
She said:
"I really think I ought to go back and see about a meal for Johnnie in case he turns up."
"Nonsense!" said Hilda, sharply. "With three servants in the house, I suppose Johnnie won't starve! Now just sit down. Sit down!" Her tone softened. "My dear, you're worse than a child.... Tell Edwin." She put a cushion behind Janet in the easy chair. And the gesture made Janet's eyes humid once more.