The slight awkwardness was, on the whole, rather added to by T. Tembarom—as if serenely introduced by the hand of drama itself—opening the door and walking into the room. He came in with a matter-of-fact, but rather obstinate, air, and stopped in their midst, looking round at them as if collectedly taking them all in.
Hutchinson sprang to his feet with a kind of roar, his big hands plunging deep into his trousers pockets.
“Here he is! Danged if he isn't!” he bellowed. “Now, lad, tha let 'em have it!”
What he was to let them have did not ensue, because his attitude was not one of assault.
“Say, you are all here, ain't you!” he remarked obviously. “Good business!”
Miss Alicia got up from the sofa and came trembling toward him as one approaches one risen from the dead, and he made a big stride toward her and took her in his arms, patting her shoulder in reproachful consolation.
“Say, you haven't done what I told you—have you?” he soothed. “You've let yourself get rattled.”
“But I knew it wasn't true,” she sobbed. “I knew it wasn't.”
“Of course you did, but you got rattled all the same.” And he patted her again.
The duke came forward with a delightfully easy and—could it be almost jocose?—air of bearing himself. Palford and Grimby remarked it with pained dismay. He was so unswerving in his readiness as he shook hands.