Miss Girton, who had been holding aloof for some time, suddenly said:
“What’s the fuss about, anyhow?”
“Oh, a noise. . . .” Algy, abashed, was unwontedly reticent, and seemed to want nothing more than the early termination of the discussion. He fidgeted, polishing his monocle industriously. “Sir John Bittle kind of giving a rough party, don’t you know.”
“I think we’ve had quite enough nonsense for one evening,” remarked Agatha Girton. “Everyone’s a bundle of nerves. Is there any need for all this excitement?”
She herself had lost her usual sangfroid. Under the mask of grim disapproval she was badly shaken—Patricia saw the slight trembling of the big rough hand that held the limp cigarette.
“Right as per,” agreed Algy weakly. “Sorry, Aunt Agatha.”
Miss Girton was absurdly pettish.
“I decline to adopt you as a nephew, Mr. Lomas-Coper.”
“Sorry, Aunt—Miss Girton. I’ll tool along.”
Patricia smiled and patted his hand as she said good-bye, but the ordinarily super-effervescent Algy had gone off the boil. He contrived a sickly smile, but he was clearly glad of an excuse to leave the scene of his faux pas.