The Pride of Eve by Warwick Deeping

The local committee of a society for the propagation of something or other had taken possession of Canterton's library, and Mrs. Brocklebank was the dominant lady. The amount of business done at these meetings was infinitesimal, for Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton were like battleships that kept up a perpetual booming of big guns, hardly troubling to notice the splutter of suggestions fired by the lesser vessels. The only person on the committee who had any idea of business was little Miss Whiffen, the curate's sister. She was one of those women who are all profile, a busy, short-sighted, argumentative creature who did her best to prevent Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton from claiming the high seas as their own. She fussed about like a torpedo boat, launching her torpedoes, and scoring hits that should have blown most battleships out of the water. But Mrs. Brocklebank was unsinkable, and Gertrude Canterton was protected by the net of her infinite self-satisfaction. Whatever Miss Whiffen said, they just kept on booming.

Sometimes they squabbled politely, while old Lady Marchendale, who was deaf, sat and dozed in her chair. They were squabbling this afternoon over a problem that, strange to say, had something to do with the matter in hand. Miss Whiffen had contradicted Mrs. Brocklebank, and so they proceeded to argue.