John Mortimer was the last guest to make his appearance on the morning of the christening. He found the baby, who had been brought down to be admired, behaving scandalously, crying till he was crimson in the face, and declining all his aunt's loving persuasions to him to go to sleep. Emily was moving up and down the drawing-room, soothing and cherishing him in her arms, assuring him that this was his sleepy time, and shaking and patting him as is the way of those who are cunning with babies. But all was in vain. He was carried from his father's house in a storm of indignation, and from time to time he repeated his protest against things in general till the service was over.
Some of the party walked home to the house. Justina lingered, hastened, and accosted John Mortimer. But all in vain; he kept as far as possible from her, while Emily, who had gone forward, very soon found him close at her side.
"Madam," he said, "I shall have the honour of taking you in to luncheon.
Did you know it?"
"No, John," she answered, laughing because he did, and feeling as if the occasion had suddenly become more festive, though she knew some explanation must be coming.
"I shall easily find an opportunity," he said, "of telling St. George what I have done. I went through the dining-room and saw the names on the plates, and I took the liberty to change one or two. You can sit by the curate at any time. In fact, I should think old friendship and a kind heart might make you prefer to sit by me. Say that they do, Mrs. Walker."
"They do," answered Emily. "But your reason, John?"
"That little creature is a match-maker. Why must she needs give me the golden head?"
"Oh, she did? Perhaps it was because she thought you would expect it."
"Expect it! I expect it? No; I am in the blessed case of him who expects nothing, and who therefore cannot be disappointed. I always thought you were my friends, all of you."
"So we are, John; you know we are."