"It's never been as bad as this," Ermyntrude said. "I've borne all the rest, but I won't bear this. It's an insult, that's what you don't seem to see! Other people don't think I'm old and dull, and lost my looks, but not my own husband! Oh no! He has to get off with a girl from Fritton! On top of everything!"
"Darling, you're so rare and precious the poor sweet can't live on your plane," said Vicky comfortingly. "Really, it's all dreadfully sad, and rather like a Russian novel, and I wouldn't wonder a bit if you were one of those terribly fated women who go through life never being understood or appreciated."
This speech seemed to Mary altogether too fulsome to be stomached, but Ermyntrude was visibly soothed by it, and volunteered the information that she had always been one of the deep ones.
"Oh, you are so awfully right, Ermyntrude, darling pet!" agreed Vicky. "In fact, I think you're rather like one of those mysterious mountain tarns, and quite, quite wonderful!"
Ermyntrude was gratified by being thought to resemble a mountain tarp, but it was evident that Wally's latest misdemeanour had seriously upset her. Her colour remained alarmingly high, and her eyes very bright and sparkling. Nor was Mary reassured by her rising abruptly to her feet, and announcing with unaccustomed curtness that the subject would not bear further discussion. It was not Ermyntrude's way to bottle up her grievances, and the studied cheerfulness of her voice, when she began immediately to talk about the prospective dinner-party, had the effect of disturbing Mary more than a lively display of hysterics would have done.