“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:
“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.