The form taken by the bouleversement of the five occupiers of the drawing-room appeared to consist principally in their each and all having taken a seat upon some pieces of furniture not primarily intended to be sat upon.
Iris, very dishevelled, was perched upon the piano; her fiancé bestrode a small table; Mark, looking harassed, sat on the corner of the lowest bookcase in the room; and Ruthie and Ambrose, their respective boots drumming a lively quartette against the wainscoting, disfigured either end of the writing-table. Iris turned in instant appeal to the entering visitors.
"We're simply fearfully worried," she declared penetratingly. "Do help me to settle. Oh, do sit down, Lady Rossiter!"
Edna smilingly selected the corner of the sofa least encumbered by cardboard boxes and crumpled tissue-paper.
"It's old Aunt Anne. We don't know what to do about having her at the wedding. We never, never thought she'd want to come."
"She's seventy-nine," said Mark.
"And perfectly awful," moaned Iris.
"One had hoped, and meant, to avoid a conventional gathering of relations altogether," mournfully interjected Mr. Garrett's deep tones. "I myself have had to be extraordinarily careful. We, who are members of the Clan, have to reckon with such immense feudal feeling and that kind of thing—the sort of old-time loyalty one hardly sees on the wrong side of the Border—and finally we decided to eliminate all but the very nearest. The dear old pater is going to represent the family, and the old pipers and gillies and—er—dependents generally."
"I am afraid he has a long, cold journey before him, then, in this bitter weather," said Edna civilly.
"The pater is not actually in dear old Scotland at the moment," said Mr. Garrett, in a tone of reserve.