Out on the steps were Fordham, wrapped up to the ears; Sydney ready to devour Babie, who passively submitted; and Mrs. Evelyn, as usual, giving her friend a sense of rest and reliance.
The last visit, though only five years previous to this one, had seemed in past ages, till the familiar polished oak floor was under foot, and the low tea-table in the wainscoted hall, before the great wood fire, looked so homelike and natural, that the newcomers felt as if they had only left it yesterday. Fordham, having thrown off his wraps, waited on his guests, looking exceedingly happy in his quiet way, but more fragile than ever. He had a good deal of fair beard, but it could not conceal the hollowness of his cheeks, and there were great caves round his eyes, which were very bright and blue. Yet he was called well, waited assiduously on little Lina, and talked with animation.
“We have nailed the weathercock,” he said, “and telegraphed to the clerk of the weather-office not to let the wind change for a week.”
“Meantime we have three delicious days to ourselves,” said Sydney, “before any of the nonsense and preparation begins.”
“Indeed! As if Sydney were not continually drilling her unfortunate children!”
“If you call the Psalms and hymns nonsense, Duke—”
“No! no! But isn’t there a course of instruction going on, how to strew the flowers gracefully before the bride?”
“Well, I don’t want them thrown at her head, as the children did at the last wedding, when a great cowslip ball hit the bride in the eye. So I told the mistress to show them how, and the other day we found them in two lines, singing—
‘This is the way the flowers we strew!’”
“I suppose Cecil is keeping his residence?”