My dear, order the carriage"-- "Louisa, love, no more dancing; your papa is going."-- "_Good_-afternoon, Lady Lundie!"-- "Haw! thanks very much!"-- "_So_ sorry for dear Blanche!"-- "Oh, it's been _too_ charming!" So Society jabbered its poor, nonsensical little jargon, and got itself politely out of the way before the storm came.
This was exactly the consummation of events for which Sir Patrick had been waiting in the seclusion of the garden.
There was no evading the responsibility which was now thrust upon him.
Lady Lundie had announced it as a settled resolution, on her part, to trace Anne to the place in which she had taken refuge, and discover (purely in the interests of virtue) whether she actually was married or not.

Blanche (already overwrought by the excitement of the day) had broken into an hysterical passion of tears on hearing the news, and had then, on recovering, taken a view of her own of Anne's flight from the house.

Anne would never have kept her marriage a secret from Blanche; Anne would never have written such a formal farewell letter as she had written to Blanche--if things were going as smoothly with her as she was trying to make them believe at Windygates.

Some dreadful trouble had fallen on Anne and Blanche was determined (as Lady Lundie was determined) to find out where she had gone, and to follow, and help her.
It was plain to Sir Patrick (to whom both ladies had opened their hearts, at separate interviews) that his sister-in-law, in one way, and his niece in another, were equally likely--if not duly restrained--to plunge headlong into acts of indiscretion which might lead to very undesirable results.

A man in authority was sorely needed at Windygates that afternoon--and Sir Patrick was fain to acknowledge that he was the man.
"Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single life," thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the sequestered garden-path to which he had retired, and applying himself at shorter intervals than usual to the knob of his ivory cane.