The Marquis's congratulations were different when we met in the salle à manger; he kissed my hand. How cool and fine his old, withered fingers felt!
"You will be the most beautiful débutante to-night, ma chère enfant," he said; "and all the félicitations are for Monsieur Gurrage. You are a noble girl—but such is life. My wife detested me—dans le temps. But what will you?"
"You, at least, were a gentleman, Marquis," I said.
"There is that, to be sure," he allowed. "But my wife preferred her dancing-master. One can never judge."
At half-past two o'clock (they must have gobbled their lunch), Mrs. Gurrage, Augustus—yes, I must get accustomed to saying that odious name—Augustus and Miss Hoad drove up in the barouche, and got solemnly out and came up to the door which Hephzibah held open for them. They solemnly entered the sitting-room where we all were, and solemnly shook hands. There is something dreadfully ill-behaved about me to-day. I could hardly prevent myself from screaming with laughter.
"I've heard the joyous news," Mrs. Gurrage said, "and I've come to take you to me heart, me dear."
Upon which I was folded fondly against a mosaic brooch containing a lock of hair of the late Mr. Gurrage.
It says a great deal for the unassailable dignity of grandmamma that she did not share the same fate. She, however, escaped with only numerous hand-shakings.
"He is, indeed, to be congratulated, votre fils, madame," the
Marquis said, on being presented.
"And the young lady, too, me dear sir. A better husband than me boy'll make there is not in England—though his old mother says it."