“Why, we're keeping you! It's time for you to dress for the Tree. John”—she reproached her husband—“how could you let us do it?”
“Far be it from me to hurry ladies out of other people's houses—especially ladies who have put themselves in charge of other people.”
“No, don't hurry,” pleaded Mavering; “there's plenty of time.”
“How much time?” asked Mrs. Saintsbury.
He looked at his watch. “Well, a good quarter of an hour.”
“And I was to have taken Mrs. Pasmer and Alice home for a little rest before the Tree!” cried Mrs Saintsbury. “And now we must go at once, or we shall get no sort of places.”
In the civil and satirical parley which followed, no one answered another, but young Mavering bore as full a part as the elder ladies, and only his father and Alice were silent: his guests got themselves out of his room. They met at the threshold a young fellow, short and dark and stout, in an old tennis suit. He fell back at sight of them, and took off his hat to Mrs. Saintsbury.
“Why, Mr. Boardman!”
“Don't be bashful, Boardman?” young Mavering called out. “Come in and show them how I shall look in five minutes.”
Mr. Boardman took his introductions with a sort of main-force self-possession, and then said, “You'll have to look it in less than five minutes now, Mavering. You're come for.”