The Gordons and the McKenzies, like hostile armies, looked on grimly. Everyone felt awkward, and to feel awkward was nothing less than tragic, in the eyes of the assembly.
“Oh, Hadria, how could you?” cried Mrs. Gordon, coming up in her elaborate toilette, which expressed almost as much of the character of its wearer as was indicated by her thin, chattering tones, and unreposeful manner. Her mode of dress was rich and florid—very obvious in its effects, very naïf. She was built on a large scale, and might have been graceful, had not her mental constitution refused to permit, or to inspire, that which physical construction seemed to intend. She distributed smiles on all hands, of no particular meaning. Though still a young woman, she looked worn and wearied. However, her rôle was cheerfulness, and she smiled on industriously.
“I am so sorry,” said Hadria, “the quarrel went clean out of my head. They are so well matched. But your sister-in-law will never forgive me.”
“Oh, well, never mind, my dear; it is your way, I know. Only of course it is awkward.”
“What can be done? Shall I run in and separate them?”
“Oh, Hadria, you are ridiculous!”
“I was not meant for society,” she said, in a depressed tone.
“Oh, you will soon get into the way of it,” cried Mrs. Gordon encouragingly.
“I am afraid I shall.”
Mrs. Gordon stared. “Mr. Temperley, I can never make out what Miss Fullerton really means. Do see if you can.”