mrs. voysey. Not a glass of wine?
mr. george booth. If there's anything I can do just send round.
mrs. voysey. Thank you.
He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He shakes hands with them both.
mr. george booth. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!
emily is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair.
booth. I think it all went off as he would have wished.
mr. george booth. [feeling that he is called on for praise.] Great credit . . great credit.
He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by trenchard voysey, to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his formula. But trenchard speaks first.
trenchard. Have you the right time?