After she had left them—for she had gone then and there, in her own
phrase, “out into the night”—they had uttered, when they recovered a
little from their consternation, all the things they might have been
expected to utter. They were very hot and angry. Her father, a stout
man, had blown out his cheeks, tugged at his whiskers and pronounced,
“No daughter of mine.” It was an excommunication. “The ingratitude. To
think that ever ...” her mother had whimpered. Her aunt, who was
elderly, frail, and timorous, had bleated, “Oh, and to think of all the
_horrible_ men in the world.” Her brother, a severely good young man,
had said, “All I ask, father, and you, too, mother, is that I may NEVER
hear her name again,” and his wife, who was like a little brown wren,
his mere echo, had said, “Oh, dear, it does seem hard, doesn’t it? but
Bertie is always right about these things.”
Her sister, who was engaged, summed up their main unspoken thought as
she said fretfully and anxiously, “But what are we to say to people?”