And so, indeed, he was. Poor Hannay had been conscious of her attitude--conscious under her pure and austere eyes, of his own shortcomings, and it struck him that Majendie needed some defence against her judgment of his taste in friendship. When the door closed behind the Majendies, Mr. Gorst was left the last lingering guest. "Poor Wallie," said Mrs. Hannay. "_Poor_ Wallie," said Mr. Hannay, and sighed. "What do you think of her?" said the lady to Mr. Gorst. "Oh, I think she's magnificent." "Do you think he'll be able to live up to it?" "Why not?" said Mr. Gorst cheerfully. "Well, it wasn't very gay for him before he married, and I don't imagine it's going to be any gayer now." "_Now_" said Mr. Hannay, "I understand what's meant by the solemnisation of holy matrimony. That woman would solemnise a farce at the Vaudeville, with Gwen Richards on." "She very nearly solemnised my dinner," said Mrs. Hannay. "She doesn't know," said Mr. Hannay, "what a dinner is. She's got no appetite herself, and she tried to take mine away from me. A regular dog-in-the-manger of a woman." "Oh, come, you know," said Gorst. "She can't be as bad as all that. Edith's awfully fond of her." "And _that's_ good enough for you?" said Mrs. Hannay. "Yes. That's good enough for me. _I_ like her," said Gorst stoutly; and Mrs. Hannay hid in her pocket-handkerchief a face quivering with mirth. But Gorst, as he departed, turned on the doorstep and repeated, "Honestly, I like her." "Well, honestly," said Mr. Hannay, "I don't." And, lost in gloomy forebodings for his friend, he sought consolation in whiskey and soda. Mrs. Hannay took a seat beside him. "And what did you think of the dinner?" said she. "It was a dead failure, Pussy." "You old stupid, I mean the dinner, not the dinner-party." Mrs. Hannay rubbed her soft, cherubic face against his sleeve, and as she did so she gently removed the whiskey from his field of vision. She was a woman of exquisite tact. "Oh, the dinner, my plump Pussy-cat, was a dream--a happy dream." CHAPTER XII "There are moments, I admit," said Majendie, "when Hannay saddens me." Anne had drawn him into discussing at breakfast-time their host and hostess of the night before. "Shall you have to see very much of them?" She had made up her mind that she would see very little, or nothing, of the Hannays. "Well, I haven't, lately, have I?" said he, and she owned that he had not. "How you ever could--" she began, but he stopped her. "Oh well, we needn't go into that." It seemed to her that there was something dark and undesirable behind those words, something into which she could well conceive he would not wish to go. It never struck her that he merely wished to put an end to the discussion.