I felt that the action of my opera was hanging fire. Indeed, every one was
beginning to feel it. The Hall door had been shut against the bane of the
night-air. The stimulus of the fragrant night-stock had been excluded.
Miss Tattersall pretended not to yawn. We all pretended that we did not
feel a craving to yawn. The chatter rose and fell spasmodically in short
devitalised bursts of polite effort.

I looked round for Brenda, but could not see her anywhere.

"Won't you come back into the drawing-room?" Mrs. Jervaise was saying to
the Sturtons.

"Oh! thank you, it's _hardly_ worth while, is it?" Mrs. Sturton answered
effusively, but she loosened the shawl that muffled her throat as if she
were preparing for a longer wait. "I'm _so_ sorry," she apologised for the
seventh time. "So very unfortunate after such a really delightful
evening."

They kept up that kind of conversation for quite a long time, while we
listened eagerly for the sound of the motor-horn.

And no motor-horn came; instead, after endlessly tedious minutes, John
returned bearing himself like a portent of disaster.

The confounded fellow whispered again.

"What, not anywhere?" Jervaise asked irritably. "Sure he hasn't gone to
bed?"