He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beautifully dressed—though, with her moiré antique, old point lace and diamonds, more in the style of a middle-aged matron than a very youthful maiden.
She was looking happy, too—a circumstance which he misunderstood and misinterpreted in his own favor, for he could not know what had been passing in her own mind, or that her content was founded on the faith that she had discovered a perfect solution for the difficulty in which she had previously found herself.
If the servant had not been present he would have expressed his contrition for having frightened her, and his delight in meeting her again, but there stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continuations, black satin vest and spotless linen, exhibiting at once the self-consciousness of a dandy and the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapprobation on his shabby and rusty master, who had made no toilet in honor of the Christmas dinner.
The young lady of the house took no notice of the colonel’s neglect; yet it was to her he spoke, of course, when he said:
“I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing before you in this style, but really——”
“Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what does it matter? Who has a better right to appear in comfortable dishabille at his own table than you have?” she brightly inquired, thinking at the same time of the graver apology he owed her for a heavier offence.
He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and rewarded it with a smile of gratitude.
Though they were but two, the dinner was a protracted one, for there were many courses, and the family cook would have felt enraged if every one of them had not been honored.
And old Laban—a cross between a bishop and a dandy—waited with solemnity and self-conceit.
At length it was over, and they adjourned to the drawing-room.