“Well, is it Hadrian!” exclaimed Cousin Matilda, wringing the lather off her hand. “We didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
“I got off Monday night,” said Hadrian, glancing round the room.
“Fancy!” said Cousin Matilda. Then, having dried her hands, she went forward, held out her hand, and said:
“How are you?”
“Quite well, thank you,” said Hadrian.
“You’re quite a man,” said Cousin Matilda.
Hadrian glanced at her. She did not look her best: so thin, so large-nosed, with that pink-and-white checked duster tied round her head. She felt her disadvantage. But she had had a good deal of suffering and sorrow, she did not mind any more.
The servant entered—one that did not know Hadrian.
“Come and see my father,” said Cousin Matilda.
In the hall they roused Cousin Emmie like a partridge from cover. She was on the stairs pushing the bright stair-rods into place. Instinctively her hand went to the little knobs, her front hair bobbed on her forehead.