‘And what am I to call you?’
‘By my name, of course.’
‘Arthur! Oh! I don’t know how.’
‘You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when my aunt kisses you, it will be better for us. Ha! there is Theodora.’
‘O, where?’
‘Gone! Fled in by the lower door. I wish I could have caught her.’
Violet held her breath. The grand parterre, laid out in regularly-shaped borders, each containing a mass of one kind of flower, flaming elscholchias, dazzling verbenas, azure nemophilas, or sober heliotrope, the broad walks, the great pile of building, the innumerable windows, the long ascent of stone steps, their balustrade guarded by sculptured sphinxes, the lofty entrance, and the tall powdered footmen, gave her the sense of entering a palace. She trembled, and clung to Arthur’s arm as they came into a great hall, where a vista of marble pillars, orange trees, and statues, opened before her; but comfort came in the cordial brotherly greeting with which John here met them.
‘She is frightened out of her senses,’ said Arthur.
John’s reply was an encouraging squeeze of the hand, which he retained, leading her, still leaning on her husband’s arm, into a room, where an elderly gentleman was advancing; both her hands were placed within his by her supporters on either side, and he kissed her, gravely saying, ‘Welcome, my dear.’ He then presented her to a formal embrace from a tall lady; and Arthur saying, ‘Well, Theodora! here, Violet,’ again took her hand, and put it into another, whose soft clasp was not ready, nor was the kiss hearty.
Presently Violet, a little reassured by Lord Martindale’s gentle tones, ventured on a survey. She was on the same sofa with Lady Martindale; but infinitely remote she felt from that form like an eastern queen, richly dressed, and with dark majestic beauty, whose dignity was rather increased than impaired by her fifty years. She spoke softly to the shy stranger, but with a condescending tone, that marked the width of the gulf, and Violet’s eyes, in the timid hope of sympathy, turned towards the sister.