"Stay—stay. It's much better." Mrs. Hannay plucked her husband by the sleeve, and he lowered an attentive ear. Mrs. Ransome covered the confidence with a high-pitched babble.
"You find Scale a very sociable place, don't you, Mrs. Majendie?" said Mrs. Ransome.
"Go," said Mrs. Hannay, "and take her off into the conservatory, or somewhere."
"More sociable in the winter-time, of course." (Mrs. Ransome, in her agitation, almost screamed it.)
"I can't take her off anywhere, if she won't go," said Mr. Hannay in a thick but penetrating whisper. He collapsed into a chair in front of Anne, where he seemed to spread himself, sheltering her with his supine, benignant gaze.
Mrs. Hannay was beside herself, beholding his invertebrate behaviour. "Don't sit down, stupid. Do something—anything."
He went to do it, but evidently, whatever it was, he had no heart for it.
A maid came in and lit a lamp. There was a simultaneous movement of departure among the nearer guests.
"Oh, heavens," said Mrs. Hannay, "don't tell me they're all going to go!"
Anne, serenely contemplating these provincial manners, was bewildered by the horror in Mrs. Hannay's tone. There was no accounting for provincial manners, or she would have supposed that Mrs. Hannay, mortified by the presence of her most undesirable acquaintance, would have rejoiced to see them go.