The fact is Mrs. Mounteagle has been rooted to the spot, paralysed as it were by a sense of shame and humiliation.
Lady MacDonald has watched the scene as at a play, a comedy in low-life, acted for the benefit of the stalls and boxes.
"We really must go," murmurs Giddy hastily, catching her breath as Mr. Grebby lights his pipe with a match he has rasped along his trousers. She rises, gathering up a long feather boa to wind round her neck.
Lady MacDonald follows her example, her jingling chatelaine clanks irritatingly, as if protesting at being found in such company.
She draws on a light kid glove, proffering Eleanor her finger-tips.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Roche," she drawls. "I have so enjoyed a peep at your little coterie to-day, but we really must not intrude ourselves upon you longer, you will have so many home topics to discuss."
Mrs. Mounteagle refrains from her customary caress, whereat Eleanor remarks:
"How pale you look, Giddy! Are you ill?"
"Yes," she replies, under her breath, "I have over-eaten myself—overdone with APPLES!"