Whilst Annie Millar was busy dispensing the tea and coffee to her guests, Mrs. Watson approached her, and enquired, who was that little old lady who walked into dinner before her. A wicked light danced in Annie's eyes, for she had noticed Jane's scornful manner, and was excessively pleased at the surprise in store for her.
"Do you not know her?" she replied; "she is my godmother, and is now staying with us on her road to London."
"And her name, tell me that—who is she—who was she—to have the precedence over me, Miss Millar?'
"She is the widow of Sir George Barry, a baronet—who died a year or two ago—there is no family, so the title becomes extinct—she is the kindest, quietest, best old lady in the world, I am sure."
"Bless me," cried Mrs. Watson, growing very red in the face, "you don't say so, sure: a baronet's lady! well really—I never thought of that—I am sure I wish I had known it sooner. Why did you not introduce me."
"She did not think it necessary," replied Annie, quietly; "and we always let her have her own way—indeed, I believe I ought not to have told you who she is, only I saw you were annoyed at her having the precedence of you, and I thought it would comfort you to find it was not without reason and right."
"Well, I shall certainly go and talk to her now; but I am sure I don't know why you should suppose I was annoyed about anything of the sort; I declare I do not mind in the least what I do—or where I go—nobody can be more indifferent about their place than I am, though, of course, I do not like to see a mere nobody put over my head; but a baronet's lady is quite a different thing; I wonder whether she knows my uncle Sir Thomas—I dare say she does—people of rank usually know one another in London."
Miss Millar did not try to prevent her going to make the amende honorable to Lady Barry, whose quiet features expressed some surprise at the manner in which she was attacked by the hitherto scornful Mrs. Watson; and the repetition of the word "your ladyship" met Annie's ear as she contemplated them from the other side of the hearth rug.
Mr. Alfred Freemantle continued his battery of small talk in Emma's ear, and, at length, in spite of the cold ungraciousness of her manner, which was as far removed as possible from welcome or encouragement, the young gentleman ended his tirade by presenting her with a paper which he declared was a copy of verses in her honour. Emma coldly declined taking it, and his most urgent entreaties could not prevail on her to look at the verses—just at this juncture, Miss Millar joined them, and on understanding the subject in dispute she seized on the paper, and commenced reading the lines aloud. They consisted of the usual jumble about stars and flowers, streams and bowers, wings and other things, hearts, darts, flames and names, which might be expected in the valentine of a school-boy, and Annie read them in such an absurd, mock-heroic tone as made those within hearing laugh most naturally, really thinking, as they did, that it was intended altogether as a burlesque. Alfred Freemantle writhed under this laughter, which he could not take as a compliment, having intended the whole poem to be extremely sentimental: he tried to smile too, but really felt far more inclined to cry, and he shrank back into a corner, there to hide his confusion as well as he could. Annie did not pursue her triumph farther, but left the poor young man to the mortifying consideration of his own defeat.
When tea and coffee were dismissed, Annie declared it to be her intention to have a dance, which of course all the young people seconded with zeal. There was fortunately amongst the party one lady, who it was known excelled in playing country-dances on the harpsichord, which stood in the drawing-room, an heir loom from Annie's mother. The room was soon prepared, and the young ladies all drew up their heads, and began to look straight before them, as if they did not care the least in the world which of the gentlemen asked them to dance, or whether any did at all. Emma having no intention of standing up herself, drew farther back into a corner, without perceiving that it was the very one where young Freemantle had hidden his diminished head. He quite misinterpreted the action, and dropping down into an empty chair by her side, said with an air intended to be very arch,