There could be no doubt about it. Patiently and methodically Humphrey went through his task. Not one was overlooked—not one was left out.
No matter if one was standing apart, at the other end of the room, another deep in a volume of prints, and two more tête-à-tête in a political discussion. Humphrey thought nothing of pursuing the first, rousing the second, and disturbing the others. The inevitable "good-night" rang out all down the room, and the inevitable little palm was outstretched.
Sir Everard ever afterwards looked back to those slow moments of torture, as to a sort of hideous nightmare. Each minute was laden with anxiety, each new handshaking fraught with danger, each conversation that a guest opened with the child, a fresh source of fear.
Interminable moments! The hands of the clock seemed as if they would never move, the gong seemed as if it would never sound, and he stood in despair, watching the little figure pursuing its triumphal progress down the room, and listening to the patronizing tones in which one and the other rallied the boy on his mistake.
"So you thought you were going to see a lot of wild men, young gentleman?"
"Uncle Charlie told me so," was the answer.
Sir Everard fidgeted from one leg to the other. ("Only thirteen more," he observed to himself.)
"And you're quite disappointed?" said the next one, laughing.
"Yes," said Humphrey; "there isn't much to see in a lot of gentlemen in black coats."
("Only twelve now," reflected the baronet.)