Then, thank God, the others come in, and dinner is announced, and the situation is ended.
The old host, still under the influence of his hallucination, is bearing down like a hawk (with his old bent elbow extended) on Barbara, until intercepted and redirected by a whispered roar and graphic pantomime on the part of his nephew.

Then, at last, he realizes Roger's bad taste, and we go in.
As soon as we are seated, I look about me.

It is a round table.

For my part, I hate a round table.

There is no privacy in it.