Mr. Prentice chimed in boisterously from the bottom of the table.
"What no one will ever observe among the Swiss people is a pretty girl. Did you see a pretty girl on all your travels, Mrs. Thompson—except the one you took with you?" And Mr. Prentice bowed to Enid, and then laughed loudly and cheerfully.
"Is that a fact?" asked Mr. Ridgway. "Are they really so ill-favoured?"
"Plainest-headed lot in Europe," shouted Mr. Prentice.
"And do you, madam, endorse the verdict?"
"Oh, no. Far too sweeping;" and Mrs. Thompson laughed nervously, and attempted to draw her daughter into the conversation. "Enid, Mr. Ridgway is asking if we saw no pretty girls in Switzerland."
But Enid was dull. She had volunteered to join the party, but she would not assist the hostess in making it a success. She need not have been here; and it was stupid or unkind of her to come, and yet not try to be pleasant.
"Didn't we, mother? I don't remember."
All this strained talk about Switzerland was heavy and spiritless. One heard the note of effort all through it. In the old days they would have been chattering freely of the shop and themselves. Mrs. Thompson felt painfully conscious that there was something wrong with the feast. No gaiety. Some influence in the air that proved alternately chilling and nerve-disturbing. She knew that Mr. Prentice felt it, too. He was endeavouring to make things go; and when he wanted things to go, he became noisy. He was growing noisier and noisier.
She looked at her guests while Mr. Prentice bellowed in monologue. They were eating and drinking, but somehow failing to enjoy themselves.