“Ask me all about her rheumatism, madam, for 'tis me that knows more about it than her,” said Mr. Barlowe, with a jerk of his thumb and a wink in the direction of his wife. The homely enquiry of Mrs. Burney had clearly forced him to throw off all ceremony and treat the visit of Miss Burney as an ordinary domestic incident.
His wife would have none of this, however; she said in tones of stiff reproof:
“Mr. Barlowe, you forget that the young lady has not been presented to Brother Jonathan or the Alderman. Thomas, it is for you to usher the lady into the presence of your uncles and aunts. Pray be not remiss, Thomas. There is no excuse for such an omission.”
“I was only waiting until you had finished, ma'am,” said Thomas.
“I have finished,” she replied, with a stiff nod. “To be sure, 'twas my intention to express, in what I trust would be appropriate terms, our happiness in welcoming Miss Burney to our humble home; a few phrases of this sort were not thought out of place when I was young; but it appears that your father knows better what is comme il faut and haut ton than me. Bring the young lady forward, Thomas.”
The younger Thomas looked dubiously from his mother to his father. He was uncommonly like an actor who had forgotten his part, Fanny thought—he had no initiative. Fanny herself was more at home than any of the household. While the young man hesitated, she walked up the room as if she meant to present herself to the six figures that sat in a row at the farther end.
Thomas was beside her in a moment.
“I ask your pardon, Miss Burney,” he said. “But I knew that mamma had at least two more welcomes for your ear, and I feared that she had forgot them. Do not you think that mamma speaks well? Perhaps it would be unjust to judge her by what she said—she only made a beginning. You will be delighted when you are going away.”
Fanny felt that this prediction was certain to be realized.
“Yes, mamma's good-byes are as well worded as her greetings,” he continued; “a clergyman could scarcely better them; and I hope——”