Mr Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.
It had been the aim of Mr Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.
For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.
So far as the impression to be made on Mr Smythje was concerned, Mr Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb—radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.
The heart of the cockney felt—perhaps for the first time in his life—that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.
For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of the bagnio were obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.
Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last—how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil—was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.
The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive a reciprocity of this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling of dégout; or at least of indifference.
In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate début. A contretemps had occurred in the ceremony of introduction—just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutual reconnoissance. Mr Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!