David had already been looking right and left for Chappie; and, even as he walked into the drawing-room, he had a seductive whistle ready in case the poodle came to meet him, before he could reach Diana's friendly hand.
But neither Diana nor the poodle were in the drawing-room.
Instead, on a large sofa, at right angles with the fireplace, in the midst of heaped up cushions, sat a very plump elderly lady, of haughty mien, clad in claret-coloured velvet, a nodding ornament in her white hair, and much jewellery on her fat neck. She raised a lorgnon, on a long tortoiseshell handle, and looked through it at David as he advanced toward her.
There was such awe-inspiring majesty in the action, that David felt certain she must be, at the very least, a duchess.
He seemed to be hours in reaching the sofa. It was like one of those long walks taken in dreams, covering miles, yet only advancing yards; and as he walked his clerical jacket grew shorter, and his boots more patently not patent leather.
When, at last, he reached the hearthrug—nothing happened. The plump lady had, apparently, no disengaged hand; one held the lorgnon; the other, a large feather fan.
"D'y do?" she said, in a rather husky voice. "I conclude you are Diana's missionary."
This was an almost impossible remark to answer. David was not Diana's missionary; yet he was, undoubtedly, the missionary Diana had asked to dinner.
In his embarrassment he held his warm hands to the blaze of the log-fire, and said: "What a beautiful Christmas-day!"