“Mrs. Burney, madam, my son has just reminded me that I have been remiss in doing my duty. It was left to me to present you to our relations at the head of the room, but I failed to do so, my mind being too full of the pretty curtsies of Miss. But I am ready to make amends now.”
But Mrs. Burney had observed a little twinkle in Fanny’s eye; she had no notion of going through the ordeal to which Fanny had been subjected, though the spectacle would doubtless have diverted Fanny hugely.
“Nay, sir,” she said quickly to the waiting gentleman, “Nay sir; you have forgotten that the presentation of a lady’s daughter is equivalent to the presentation of the lady herself.”
“What, is that so?” said he.
“Rest assured that it is,” said she, “and an excellent rule it is. It saves a repetition of a formality that is now frequently omitted in the private houses of simple folk like ourselves. Lend me your arm, sir. I shall soon make myself at home with Martha’s relations.”
She did not give him a chance of discussing the point with her; she saw that he was about to state his objections to the rule she had invented for her own saving, and she was already in advance of him in approaching the row of figures on the chairs against the wall. Fanny heard her greeting them in turn without any formality, and once again Thomas, the younger, was by her side.
His mother was still hovering, glancing suspiciously, first at the young couple, and then at the hasty proceedings of her friend, Mrs. Burney.
“It was unlike father to make so grave an omission, Miss Burney,” he said, apologetically.
“I hope that no harm will come of it,” said Fanny. “I am afraid that you found us very homely folk at our little house when you did us the honour of visiting us,” she added.
He waved his hand indulgently, smiling over her head.