“There, put on your things and let’s go,” said Barclay huffily. “Give me that case. I’ll carry it now, or you’ll lose that.”
Mrs Barclay began to thrust her hand into her pocket, and Denville was talking to his son-in-law at the other end of the room, while Claire bent over and kissed her sister.
“Are you better now, dear?”
“No-o! Oh, my head!—my head!”
“My darling!” cried Burnett, coming back and bringing with him a strong smell of cigars and bad wine.
“Don’t, Frank. Don’t you see how ill I am?”
“Yes, yes, my own, but the carriage is waiting. Let me help you down, and let’s go home.”
“Oh! My gracious! Oh!” shrieked Mrs Barclay.
“Oh!—oh!—oh!—oh!” sobbed May Burnett, again in a worse fit than before.
“Now you’ve done it again,” cried Barclay angrily. “There never was such a woman. Here, come along home.”