For now, Emma’s exploring eyes penetrated their shield of auburn lashes, and she beheld as handsome a man as ever she had seen in her life. He could not be more distinguished than Greville, for that was impossible, but he equalled him there, and surpassed him in a more good-humoured disdain of the persons not similarly favoured by circumstances. Greville’s disdain was conscious; Sir William’s perfectly unstudied and natural, not known to himself as disdain, and therefore infinitely more impressive. Such an obvious matter required no insistence. He never gave it a thought, any more than his breathing or his heart-beat. A Hamilton of the princely Scottish house, a habitué of courts all the days of his life, porphyrogenitus—born in the purple, so to speak—what could the average citizen appear in those genial indifferent eyes but a necessary incumbrance in the life of the Great? And there was more; educated, cultivated to the highest point, an arbiter of taste, an infallible judge in matters of accomplishment, happy in his bonnes fortunes with women, an indolently skilful diplomatist in a court of indolent pleasures—what was lacking to make Sir William charming?
Nothing, nothing! Even Greville looked a little starched, a little pinched beside him, too decided, too—yes, he became angular in that calm, worldly-wise company. Sir William sat himself in the armchair, laughing, rejected the cushions and fixed an eye keen under all its sunshine upon Emma as she glided to her place behind the tea-tray, and stilled the hissing urn.
That eye which had ranged over the beauties of Greece and Rome, fair in imperishable bronze and marble, which had surveyed the loveliest of the modern world and taken their measure and appraised each charm, now rested on Emma.
She poured his tea and offered the sandwiches, thankful to see by Greville’s expression that the provision pleased him. She picked with rosy fingers the green cups from the strawberries and prepared the mounded deliciousness with sugar, and poured the wrinkling cream, but in a calm silence. She felt, she knew she was doing the right thing in perfection, yet had no notion that Nature forced her daughter consummately to play her part. She thought it her own cleverness, while she could have done no other had she tried with all her strength, and humbly hoped it would please the great man.
It pleased him. He watched her steadily, once or twice missed what Greville said, once or twice forgot what he himself was saying and caught it by the tail as it vanished. Greville, at first a little huffed by this absence of mind, at last saw its point and triumphed silently. Emma understood fully.
Tea finished, she rose and stood beside Greville.
“I’ll take the tea out and wash up the cups. It will help mother, and these are our most precious teacups, Sir William. May I go, Greville?”
“Certainly, provided you come back then.”
Greville was gracious but did not rise to open the door though she moved towards it with the teapot. Sir William’s haste rebuked him, for he sprang, light as a boy, from the chair and held the door open with a smile at her.
“What, the fair tea-maker supposes that I shall do nothing in return for the delicious meal she has given me? A thousand times no! Greville, the tray is heavy for her.”