When John, with Corin in his wake, entered the drawing-room of Delancey Castle that evening, he glanced anxiously around. He had no real cause for anxiety. He was a good ten minutes in advance of the hour mentioned, having led a protesting Corin up the hill at a fine pace.
Mrs. Trimwell had seen them depart, her face an amazed and horrified note of interrogation.
“You’re dining with her ladyship!” she had gasped.
“We are,” John had assured her.
“You aren’t never going up to dine at the Castle in them clothes!” she had ejaculated.
“We dine,” John had said smiling, “in these very clothes that you now perceive upon us.”
“Land sakes!” Mrs. Trimwell had gasped. And words failing her, either from horror, or lack of imagination, she had mutely watched them depart.
They had started betimes; they had also, as I have stated, walked at a fine pace; and now, somewhat heated, they found themselves shaking hands with Lady Mary, while the clock yet wanted some ten minutes of seven-thirty.
But, so argued John, surveying the said clock, half an hour, even an hour too soon, was infinitely preferable to one minute too late. It was the first moment of meeting that would set the keynote to the whole evening. It was at that first psychological moment that the easement of his presence was necessary. Corin, he considered as quite beside the mark, you perceive.
Father Maloney was already present. He was seated in the window-seat with Antony and Michael, who had been granted half an hour’s furlough from bed.