We could not hear what John said, but we inferred the general nature of the disaster from the response accorded to his news.  The vicar merely clicked his tongue with a frown of grave disapproval, but his wife advertised the disaster for us by saying,—­

“It’s that man Carter, from the Oak, you know; not our own man.  I’ve never liked Carter.”

“Quite hopelessly, eh?” Jervaise asked John, and John’s perturbed shake of the head answered that question beyond any doubt.

“In any case,” Mrs. Sturton began, and I hazarded a guess that she was going to refuse to drive behind Carter in any stage of intoxication; but she decided to abandon that line and went on with a splendid imitation of cheerfulness, “However, there’s nothing to be done, now, but walk.  It’s quite a fine night, fortunately.”  She looked at her husband for approval.

“Oh! quite, quite,” he said.  “A beautiful night.  Let us walk by all means.”

A general rustle of relief spread up the gallery of the staircase, and was followed at once by a fresh outburst of chatter.  The waiting audience of would-be dancers had responded like one individual.  It was as if their single over-soul had sighed its thankfulness and had then tried to cover the solecism.  Their relief was short-lived.  Mrs. Jervaise “couldn’t think” of the Sturtons walking.  They must have the motor.  She insisted.  Really nothing at all.  Their chauffeur was sure to be up, still.

“Of course, certainly, by all means,” Jervaise agreed warmly, and then, to John, “He hasn’t gone to bed yet, I suppose?”

“I saw him not half an hour ago, sir,” was John’s response.

“Tell him to bring the motor round,” Jervaise ordered, and added something in a lower voice, which, near as I was to them, I could not catch.  I imagined that it might be an instruction to have the chauffeur out again if he had by any chance slunk off to bed within the last half-hour.

I think Miss Tattersall said “Damn!” Certainly the over-soul of the staircase group thought it.

“They’ll be here all night, at this rate,” was my companion’s translation of the general feeling.

“If they have to wake up the chauffeur,” I admitted.

“He’s a new man they’ve got,” Miss Tattersall replied.  “They’ve only had him three months...”  It seemed as if she were about to add some further comment, but nothing came.

“Oh!” was all that I found appropriate.

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.