“Where’s my bob?”
“Charlie!” she protested, checking her laughter.
“Why! What have I said?” Charlie inquired, with mock innocence, perceiving that he had been indiscreet, and trying to remedy his rash mistake. “Surely I can say ‘bob’!”
Edwin understood nothing of this brief passage. Janet, ignoring Charlie and dismissing the servant with an imperceptible sign, advanced to the visitor. She was dressed in white, and Edwin considered her to be extraordinarily graceful, dignified, sweet, and welcoming. There was a peculiar charm in the way in which her skirts half-reluctantly followed her along the carpet, causing beautiful curves of drapery from the waist. And her smile was so warm and so sincere! For the moment she really felt that Edwin’s presence in the house satisfied the keenest of her desires, and of course her face generously expressed what she felt.
“Well, Miss Orgreave,” Edwin grinned. “Here I am, you see!”
“And we’re delighted,” said Janet simply, taking his hand. She might have amiably teased him about the protracted difficulties of getting him. She might have hinted an agreeable petulance against the fact that the brother had succeeded where the sister had failed. Her sisterly manner to Charlie a little earlier had perhaps shown flashes of such thoughts in her mind. But no. In the presence of Edwin, Janet’s extreme good-nature forgot everything save that he was there, a stranger to be received and cherished.
“Here! Give us that tile,” said Charlie.
“Beautiful evening,” Edwin observed.
“Oh! Isn’t it!” breathed Janet, in ecstasy, and gazed from the front door into the western sky. “We were out on the lawn, but mother said it was damp. It wasn’t,” she laughed. “But if you think it’s damp, it is damp, isn’t it? Will you come and see mother? Charlie, you can leave the front door open.”
Edwin said to himself that she had all the attractiveness of a girl and of a woman. She preceded him towards the door to the right. Charlie hovered behind, on springs. Edwin, nervously pulling out his handkerchief and putting it back, had a confused vision of the hall full of little pictures, plates, stools, rugs, and old sword-sheaths. There seemed to him to be far more knick-knacks in that hall than in the whole of his father’s house; Mr Orgreave’s ingeniously contrived bookshelves were simply overlaid and smothered in knick-knacks. Janet pushed at the door, and the sound of the piano suddenly increased in volume.