“Isn’t it funny?” the little lady went on, unconscious of Mrs. Majendie’s attitude.  “My husband’s your husband’s oldest friend.  So I think you and I ought to be friends too.”

Anne’s face intimated that she hardly considered the chain of reasoning unbreakable; but Mrs. Hannay continued to play cheerful elaborations on the theme of friendship, till her husband appeared with the other three men.  He had his hand on Majendie’s shoulder, and Mrs. Hannay’s soft smile drew Mrs. Majendie’s attention to this manifestation of intimacy.  And it dawned on Anne that Mrs. Hannay’s gaiety would not end here; though it was here, with the mixing of the company, that her vulgarity would begin.

“Did you ever see such a pair?  I tell Lawson he’s fonder of Wallie than he is of me.  I believe he’d go down on his knees and black his boots for nothing, if he asked him.  I’d do it myself, only you mustn’t tell Lawson I said so.”  She paused.  “I think Lawson wants to come and have a little talk with you.”

Hannay approached heavily, and his wife gave up her place to him, cushions and all.  He seated himself heavily.  His eyes wandered heavily to the other side of the room, following Majendie.  And as they rested on his friend there was a light in them that redeemed their heaviness.

He had come to Mrs. Majendie prepared for weighty utterance.

“That man,” said Hannay, “is the best man I know.  You’ve married, dear lady, my dearest and most intimate friend.  He’s a saint—­a Bayard.”  He flung the name at her defiantly, and with a gesture he emphasised the crescendo of his thought.  “A preux chevalier, sans peur” said Mr. Hannay, “et sans reproche.”

Having delivered his soul, he sat, still heavily, in silence.

Anne repressed the rising of her indignation.  To her it was as if he had been defending her husband against some accusation brought by his wife.

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.