Fanny had hurried to her side as soon as she had passed the row of uncles and aunts. She thought that the girl seemed overcome by the tedium of the formalities; but in a few minutes she saw that Fanny was on the verge of laughter.
Mrs. Burney could not say whether she would rather that her charge became moody or hilarious.
“Eight separate curtsies,” murmured Fanny. “If there are to be the same number going away we should begin at once.”
Mrs. Burney thought it better not to reprove her for her flippancy just at that moment. She condoned it with a smile.
Only a minute were the Burneys left to themselves. Mr. Barlowe, the elder, walked solemnly up to them.
“Going on nicely, eh?” he said in a confidential way to Mrs. Burney. “Everything being done decently and in order, madam. There has been no cause of offence up to the present, though there are three persons in that row who are as ready to see an offence where none is meant as a bunch of flax to break into flame when a spark falls on it. The young lady is discreet; if she had spoken to any one of them and not to the others, there would have been a flare-up. The touchy ones belong to my wife’s family. She was a Kensit, you know.”
He made this explanation behind his hand and in a whisper; he saw that his wife and son had been in earnest consultation together over some vexed question, and now they were hovering about, waiting to catch his eye.
“I spoke too soon,” he said. “Something has gone astray, and the blame will fall on me.”
They hovered still nearer, and when he caught his eye, Thomas, the younger, stepped up to his father, saying something in his ear. Mrs. Barlowe went on hovering a yard or two away.
“That would never do,” said her husband, evidently in reply to some remonstrance offered by young Thomas. “Never. The whole of the Kensits would take offence.” Then he turned again to Mrs. Burney, saying: