"My sainted grandfather!" he murmured, though quite loud enough for the company to hear.
The poor lady stretched her thin clasped hands beseechingly under Andrew's very nose.
"He says it himself—he says it himself!" she pleaded. "For Heriot's sake, don't disown him!"
There was a rustle of silk, decisive and ominous. It was caused by the skirt of the chaste lady of Pettigrew.
"Good-night," she said.
She only touched her brother's hand with the tips of her fingers, and her stony glance gave him his first clear vision of the appalling chasm that yawned beneath his feet.
"Maggie!" he besought her, "you don't believe it?"
"Can you not disgrace yourself quietly?" she hissed, and a moment later was gone.
Andrew realized that he was already in the chasm, hurtling downwards with fearful velocity. One after another, his guests followed the example of his scandalized sister; and their host was too unmanned to hold up his head and carry off the partings with the air of injured innocence that alone might have given his reputation another (though a feeble) chance.