“There’s no noise,” returned Emily; “what are you thinking of?—they wouldn’t cheer.”
“I can hear it.”
“Nonsense, James!”
No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was the groaning in his own heart at sight of his Age passing.
“Don’t you ever tell me where I’m buried,” he said suddenly. “I shan’t want to know.” And he turned from the window. There she went, the old Queen; she’d had a lot of anxiety—she’d be glad to be out of it, he should think!
Emily took up the hair-brushes.
“There’ll be just time to brush your head,” she said, “before they come. You must look your best, James.”
“Ah!” muttered James; “they say she’s pretty.”
The meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the dining-room. James was seated by the fire when she was brought in. He placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly raised himself. Stooping and immaculate in his frock-coat, thin as a line in Euclid, he received Annette’s hand in his; and the anxious eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now, doubted above her. A little warmth came into them and into his cheeks, refracted from her bloom.
“How are you?” he said. “You’ve been to see the Queen, I suppose? Did you have a good crossing?”