Aunt Matty had, in her Irish poplin, a dress that was fearfully and wonderfully made, and dated back to about a quarter of a century before. It was of the colour of the herb whose perfume it exhaled—lavender; and every time you approached her you began to think of damask—not roses, but table-cloths and household linen, put away in great drawers, in a country house.
This is not a wardrobe style of story, but we must stay to mention the costume of Frances, Lady Rea, who came into the room with her cheeks redder than ever, although she had tried cold water, hot water, lavender water, and every cooling liquid she could think of. She was in peony red—a stiff silk of Sir Hampton’s own choice, and she sought his eye, trembling lest he should be displeased; but as he emitted a crackle, produced by his cravat, as he bent his head in satisfactory assent, a bright smile shot across the pleasant face, dimpling it all over, and she exclaimed—
“Lor’, my dears, how well you look. There, they may come now as soon as they like.”
“Mind your dress, Fanny,” said Aunt Matty, austerely, as she sat minding her own. “Sh!”
She held up her fan to command silence, as Sir Hampton cleared his throat, chuckled violently, and spoke—
“Er-rum, I think our guests will not find our circle much less attractive than—er-rum!—Ah, here they are!”
After Dinner.
Sir Hampton was right—the visitors had arrived; and almost directly after the ordinary greetings, during which Tiny never raised her eyes, and Fin was so short that Sir Hampton darted an angry glance at her, the dinner was announced. Trevor took in Lady Rea; Vanleigh, Tiny; Landells, Fin; and Pratt, Aunt Matty—Sir Hampton bringing up the rear.
The dinner was good, and passed off with no greater mishaps than a slight distribution of the saccharine juices in a dish in the second course down the back of Aunt Matilda’s poplin—Edward being the offender; but the sweetly gracious smile with which the lady bore her affliction was charming, and Fin looked her astonishment at her sister.