The formality of the presentation was overwhelming to poor Fanny. She could feel herself blushing, and she certainly was more overcome than she had been when Count Orloff, the Russian, visited the house in St. Martin's Street and she gazed with awe upon the thumb that had, it was rumoured, pressed too rigidly the wind-pipe of the unfortunate Peter. All that she could do was to try to hide her confusion by the deepest of curtsies.
“We are sensible of the honour you have done us, madam,” said Mr. Barlowe when he had recovered himself—he was addressing Fanny, ignoring for the moment the presence of Mrs. Burney.
“Our son has spoken to us of you with great admiration, Miss Burney,” said the little lady. “But I protest that when I look at you I feel as King Solomon did when he saw the Queen of Sheba, the half has not been told.”
“Oh, madam, you flatter me,” said Fanny, trying to put some force into a voice that her shyness had rendered scarcely audible.
Her stepmother, perceiving how she was suffering, hastened to greet in a much less formal way their host and hostess; but she had considerable difficulty in bringing them down to her level. It seemed that they had prepared some high phrases of welcome for their younger visitor only, and they had no mind that they should be wasted.
“My stepdaughter is of a retiring nature,” said Mrs. Burney. “She is quite unused to such ceremony as you honour her with. Well, Martha, how is the rheumatism?”
CHAPTER XXII
MRS. BARLOWE did not seem half pleased to be brought down so from the high parallels of etiquette among which she had been soaring. But she had lost her place, and before she could recover herself, Fanny had slipped behind her stepmother.