“This is exactly what I complain of. Always in extremes, making scenes, overstraining feelings, raving, an exaggerated sensibility. If you could but know its indecency, how it repels! But you cannot know. You never will. I abandon the thankless task. One question: Have I not told you never to refer to that abominable past? Who ever heard Mrs. Wells drag these unpleasant subjects into the light of day?”
“Mrs. Wells,” repeated Emma, and was hopelessly silent. Then, with the utter want of tact she showed with Greville, must needs pester him further, though timidly.
“But if you taught me all these things, Greville, was I not to make use of them? Where was I to display them? Sure the time has come that you will wish me to show off some of what I have learnt and—”
“Show off!” he echoed, with a scorn to which words are inadequate. She still knelt, baffled.
“Pray get up and sit down, and let us change the subject. You have good sense of a sort, Emma, when it serves your own turn. I expect Sir William Hamilton here this afternoon, and I do most earnestly hope that for the credit of my taste there may be no outbursts in his presence. His good opinion is of consequence to me and I would not have him think I have wasted three years on one I assured him I had such high hopes of.”
The poor Emma was humbled to the earth by this time. Her terror of Sir William combined with her love for Greville made her an easy victim.
“I promise,” she said in the measured tones which she knew he approved. “I will try to get a victory over myself and seem to be happy though miserable, for miserable I must be, Greville, if your heart does not approve me.”
He uttered a word of encouragement and returned into his paper.
Behold the parlour prepared for the great, the expected guest at the hour for tea; the neatly curtained windows open to admit a scented breeze from the garden; Emma’s bowl of roses on the centre table; the precious silhouette of Greville in its black frame on the mantelpiece; Romney’s fine drawing of Emma in sepia and wash as a wistful-eyed “Solitude” exploring far horizons, above it; the chairs plump and cushioned for respected backs; the carpet soft and harmoniously coloured; and a charming table of Sheraton workmanship spread with finest damask and thin glittering silver beside the cups of egg-shell porcelain. A delightful room though small, for everything about Greville must be delicate and elegant, be it where it would. He had gone into London to fetch Hamilton, and Emma, afraid to move so much as a chair after the arrangements had met his approval, hovered between kitchen and parlour to annoy Mrs. Cadogan with fears and comments. Had Watts sent the fresh butter? The cream?
“You’d have heard of it if he hadn’t, girl, since ’twas you ordered it. Here it is, yellow as buttercups and sweeter. Put it in yon big silver milk jug, Emma. And look, here’s the strawberries, beauties, right British Queens if I know anything. Carry in the dish. Here, girl, stop. Put them leaves about them so they’ll peep out between with their fat red cheeks. Now, ain’t that pretty? And now the bread and butter.”