An hour later Ross McAndrew and Peter Bell, making their entrance to the long drawing-room together, and waiting their turn to advance toward the receiving party, exchanged a series of low-voiced comments, under cover of the general hum of talk.
"My word, Pete! Can that be our small girl, standing up there like a young queen? Watch her! I say, watch her!"
"I am watching her," said Peter, with great satisfaction. "If you see my eyes drop out, pick 'em up, will you?"
"Not that we might n't have expected it of her. I knew well enough she 'd be sweet and charming--but that little gracious manner--that self-possession--jolly, she's great!"
"Look at Murray! Is he proud of her, or is n't he?"
"Proud as Lucifer. And has a right to be. His mother looks pretty complacent herself. And Olive--she's stunning, as usual. But our Jane--"
The time to go forward had arrived. With head up and shoulders squared Peter led the way. As he passed his host and hostess he was a model of well-trained propriety, but when he reached Jane and Murray his formal manner relaxed, and he grasped each hand with a hearty grip.
"You're a delightful pair," he murmured, "and the sight of you takes me off my feet."
"You look perfectly composed, even bored," retorted Murray, laughing, glad to greet a brother who could be relied upon not to say the usual thing.
But Jane whispered as she smiled up at him, "I 'm dreadfully frightened, Petey, and I can't do it well at all."