Never was a silence so ominous as that which followed the reproof.
May’s face was purple, her eyes narrowed to green points of steel. Aunt Harriet was sweating with indignation:
her mouth worked. Ada looked scared. As though to belie a particularly hang-dog expression, Mr. Barnham muttered and snorted beneath his breath. Mr. Alcock sneered upon his finger-nails. Bob was smiling sheepishly. And the unconscious author of the unsavoury stew sat back regarding the company with eyes that saw nothing but a forgotten deference to authority awakened by the old lion’s roar.
Ann tried not to tremble.
Were there no lengths to which Satire would not go? Had Irony no mercy? God! What a tune they were calling! All hell was fiddling in the orchestra—and she had to pay . . . pay . . . .
A sudden peal at the bell saved a situation which was under sentence of death.
“That’s Mr. Mason,” said Ada. “I ’ope ’e’s brought Miss Gedge.”
She rose and left the room.
The cold, strained silence slid into the blessed hush of curiosity.
Then—