But Elizabeth may have felt obliged to him.
“These,” said Andy, muddling the introduction in the agitation of his feelings—“these are my cousins and aunt—at least my aunt, Mrs. Dixon and the Webster girls—Miss Elizabeth Atterton.”
Then he openly mopped his brow—anybody would—even the most refined.
“How do you do? I have heard Mr. Deane speak of you very often,” said Elizabeth, with a heightened colour but surprising composure.
Andy stared at her in astonishment, unable to understand how she did it, for that is a thing no man can understand until he has been married for at least a year.
“Delighted to meet any of Andy’s friends,” said Mrs. Dixon.
Andy scowled. So here was the adored learning the undignified name when he wished her always to think of him as Andrew. That was the worst of relatives.
“Yes, we quite look on Andy as a brother, though he is no real relation,” added Irene Webster, swinging her sunshade with an air of great fashion.
“Quite a nice little place—Marshaven—if you want to get away from the rush,” said Phyllis. “You can fancy yourself a tripper, and lead the simple life.”
She laughed, high up in the top of her head, and Andy and her family followed suit, though there was nothing to laugh at, because she considered herself smart, and they had formed a habit of applause.