I do not say positively that Mr. Marchbanks frowned upon her; but certainly he looked very majestic; and it is my deliberate judgment that had you searched the length and breadth of Mayfair it would have been impossible to find a more imposing man than he. His nose was like the Duke of Wellington’s, and it was known that his demeanor was modeled upon that of that renowned hero and patriot. In his cutaway morning-coat and spotless shirt-front, and his great Gladstone collar, purchased at the same shop as was affected by that distinguished statesman, with his black-bow tie and his patrician features, he might just as well have been prime minister of these realms as merely the butler to old Lady Crewkerne.
I lay particular stress upon these facts, and I want all my feminine readers to make an especial effort to comprehend them, because the behavior of the Heroine was such as has never previously been offered to the public in a work of this character.
She attempted to shake hands with the butler.
In a measure John was to blame. He approached Mr. Marchbanks so reverently, he addressed him with such an air of deference, that the artless intruder might almost be pardoned for jumping to the conclusion that Mr. Marchbanks was a marquis uncle whom she had never heard of before. At any rate, no sooner had the finely chiseled profile of Mr. Marchbanks confronted her than the creature of the straw hat tucked the wicker basket under her left arm, and thrust out her right hand with a spasmodic suddenness which dumfounded Mr. Marchbanks completely.
“Oh, how do you do?” she said. “I hope you are quite well.”
Mr. Marchbanks did exactly what you would expect him to do. He drew himself up to his full height. Yet there was no confusion in his gesture, although it was a great crisis in his life. After an instant of silence in which he sought very successfully to recover the grand manner, he held a short private colloquy with his subaltern. Neither of these gentlemen had been informed that her ladyship expected her niece, but Mrs. Plunket the housekeeper had informed them that a new under-housemaid was expected at six o’clock.
That is how the instinct of Mr. Marchbanks came to betray him.
CHAPTER V
THE INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS BETRAYS HIM
IT is impossible to forgive Mr. Marchbanks. He of all men ought to have known that the fair intruder was what is technically known as “a lady.” In these democratic times it is true this mysterious entity is of many kinds, and it was a point of honor with Mr. Marchbanks to keep as far behind them as he decently could. But it is impossible to forgive him for jumping to his absurd conclusion. One can understand a comparative amateur such as John, who judged things objectively, making such an inexcusable blunder; but that such a past master in the fine shades of social status should have confirmed him in it, is one of those things that frankly defeats us.
In the stateliest fashion, with his silvered head held very erectly, Mr. Marchbanks made his way to the housekeeper’s room.