“And were she in the cauld blast
My plaid should shelter her”
he warbled anew. “Not that she’s ever likely to be in a cauld blast, old skinflint stick-by-the-fire!” in soft parenthesis.
Peter said no more. Bertram, reduced to sudden penury, had once before returned in this fashion, but never yet with a wife. Miss Esther did not approve of her brother-in-law. Miss Esther, bright and chirrupy from an evening’s well-bred enjoyment, was now heard in the front garden, thanking Mr. Lorrimer, an elderly widower inclined to be attentive, for his kindness in seeing her home:
“You won’t refuse to come in for a glass of something and a sandwich? Nothing prepared, you know, nothing prepared; just pleasantly informal,”—innocent of what lay in store for her of pleasant informality.
Miss Esther was extremely short-sighted, and her first impression of the three figures round the fire at the far end of the room, was of Peter and her two young friends, Merle and Stuart. Then her cordial expression froze to antagonism, as advancing towards the male outline, the blur of face shaped itself into the features of her disreputable relative. Bertram, responding to suggestion, became instantly the impudent scaramouch she had always seen in him.
“Hullo, Essie! Pleased to see me? No—you’d rather not be kissed? Just as you like. Chavvy, hither and be introduced.”
Chavvy came shrinkingly forward. Miss Esther, not daring to guess with what Bertram had here invaded the sanctity of her home, bowed stiffly; and presented Bertram to Mr. Lorrimer and Mr. Lorrimer’s daughter Myrtle:
“My brother-in-law.”
“My wife,” said Bertram, explaining Chavvy.
Resulting in a fictitious assumption throughout Thatch Lane, that Miss Worthing’s younger sister—not a bit like her to look at—had turned up unexpectedly—“and Esther doesn’t seem a bit pleased! Such an odd little thing, my dear, almost not quite a lady.”