“Yes, Grandmother.”
“Sit down, all of you.”
The company did as commanded, Tay in ostentatious proximity to Mrs. Winstone. There was a moment’s profound silence, Mrs. Edis, like George Washington, having the rare gift of immersing any company in an ice bath. Mrs. Macmanus would never have dreamed of making conversation unless she had something to say; Pirie and Morison, snubbed by Fanny, were both sulky; Mrs. Winstone was flirting with Tay under the eagle eye of her sister, who poured out the tea. Finally, Mrs. Morison, with the American woman’s sense of conversational responsibility, rushed into the breach, after peremptorily motioning to her husband to sit beside her on the little sofa: here was an opportunity for a parade of domestic American bliss.
“Oh, Mrs. Edis!” she cried. “We were just talking when you came in— Aren’t you quite too frightfully proud of Mrs. France?”
“Frightfully?”
“Our dreadful slang. I mean—well, aren’t you too proud of her for words?”
“And pray why should I be unable to express myself? Julia was always a good child.”
“Oh, of course—but it isn’t often that any one is as good as Mrs. France, and so tremendously clever.”
“I am glad to infer that you think well of Julia.” Mrs. Edis, reflecting that society was even more silly than in her own day, wondered how long these people would stay. She observed that the company was looking amused, but before she had time to speculate upon the cause, she forgot the rest of them, in her keen observation of Tay. He was ignoring Mrs. Winstone and frowning at his sister. But in another moment she forgot even him.
“Oh, I don’t count,” cried the desperate Mrs. Morison. “I’m merely trying to make myself agreeable, in return for your gracious hospitality. It’s what the world thinks.”