"I hope this has not been too much excitement for you, mother," said Thurston, solicitously, giving her his arm.
"Pleasant excitement will not harm me, but I must be careful. I will see you at dinner, Indiana." She kissed her on the forehead. Thurston led her to the door, Indiana accompanying them.
"I did not know you were such an artist in dissimulation, Indiana," said Thurston, taking her head in his hands and gazing into her mischievous eyes.
"To what are you referring, may I ask?" she inquired, in a dignified tone.
"Why, the tactics you have begun with my mother. She thinks you are a perfect paragon."
"And, am I not?" drawing herself up.
"Yes," answered Thurston, laughing and kissing her hands.
Indiana found dinner a slow and tedious ceremony. It was noiselessly served, without the clatter of a dish or the sound of a footfall. At intervals, Jennings' old face peered into hers, consulting her wishes in a whisper. Their places were set very far apart at the large, round table, handsomely equipped with heavy silver and crystal, as though for a formal banquet, and decorated with white roses and maidenhair fern, in honor of the bride. She had selected from her trousseau a French gown of white satin, showing her childish neck. The maid had dressed her yellow hair in puffs in the correct English style. She was very quiet during dinner. Her head still felt a little unsteady from the steamer, and when Thurston or Lady Canning spoke, their voices sounded very far away.
Her impressions that first night in her new home were most indistinct. She had a floating conception during dinner of old mahogany, silver, and armor. Later, in the library, as she listened to Thurston entertaining his mother with details of his American trip, she was the victim of a feeling of unreality, inspired by surroundings altogether new and so entirely old. The candle-light seemed to point, with long, mysterious fingers, to the books which lined the walls, indicating dark and magic secrets locked between their ancient covers, and to waver upon the faded figures in the Gobelin tapestries until they appeared to move, endowed with life. Lady Canning, leaning back near the fire, with her fine, pinched features, her white, fragile hands resting motionless upon the arms of her chair, seemed like a figure moulded in wax.
When his mother retired, Thurston took Indiana through the house. Jennings solemnly preceded them, lighting up the rooms. Standing in the background, he nodded his head from time to time in corroboration, as Thurston explained the family portraits and related the histories of various heirlooms.