She received him with the duty of a niece who had grown up more or less in his shadow and who could appreciate the dignity of an ambassador in the family, and made the suitable beginning in enquiries after his health and the news by mail, and finishing with the weather launched discreetly into the subject of the dinner.
“I thank you very sincerely, my dear uncle, for your wish that I should do the honours as usual. Nothing could give me more pleasure.”
“Then it is settled, my dear,” he said briskly, “the hour is as usual. The guests—”
“But—” said Mrs. Dickenson with emphasis, and that awful syllable, the grave of so many reputations, fell chill on his ear. He rose hurriedly.
“I see you have a cold. Indeed, I would not be inconsiderate. I know you have often helped me at great inconvenience to yourself.”
“And would again and evermore,” said Mrs. Dickenson in her deep contralto. “But—” Again a pause.
“Pray speak plainly. What is it?”
His face was a mask of genial innocence, calm as if all the Christian virtues shed their benignant sunshine through his eyes. It was Mrs. Dickenson who looked uncomfortably conscious.
“Well, my dear uncle, I will perform a duty which I find most painful. How can I with any self-respect enter the Palazzo Sessa when I am told there is a young girl there unconnected with the family, extremely young and beautiful, with the manners of an actress, and who has been presented only to your male friends? Pray view my position candidly.”
The hot sun beat on the jalousies and filtered through the blinds. The room was, however, dim and cool with shade and the rich perfume of flowers, and there was no external cause for the little elderly flush which coloured Sir William’s cheeks. She observed it and drew her own conclusions. However, he did not hesitate, though his countenance fell.