Nor was this feeling modified by the reception which awaited them. Conrad Littlewood’s wife was nothing if not ceremonious. She prided herself, and that somewhat unduly—for she was a less clever woman intellectually than she believed—on her infallible discrimination as to shades of position, and still more of character as affecting such position. There were people decidedly beneath her to whom she considered it quite “safe” and even expedient to unbend to the point of making herself charming, in the superficial sense of the word. There were others, again, whom even she recognised as superiors in every sense of the word, whom she would on no account have condescended to appear to court. To-day she was in a not unpleasing state of expectancy as regarded these hitherto unknown relations. Kinship to a certain point she recognised as establishing its own distinct claims; beyond this, “I must wait till I see them,” she said to herself, for she did not pin her faith by any means to her mother-in-law’s dicta on such points, and in the present instance still less than usual.
“For, after all, they are my own blood-relations,” she thought, “and it is only through us that they are anything to Mrs Littlewood, or that she has had anything to do with them. And she does take up prejudices. I can see that she dislikes the eldest daughter.” And in this, as we know, Elise was not mistaken, for as regarded Frances the dowager lady had allowed her own keen and true perceptions to be unfairly clouded.
The visitors were ushered into the large drawing-room, hitherto but rarely occupied during the daytime. There was also an atmosphere of things being to a greater extent en grand tenue than had been usual; and the very look of Mrs Conrad’s tall figure, robed in unexceptionable, somewhat severe attire, as she rose and stood aside for a moment till the first greetings had been exchanged, effectually destroyed the old association of pleasurable intimacy.
Lady Emma, as was always the case when she chose to give herself a little trouble, was fully equal to the occasion. She held out her hand with the amiable but slightly indifferent air of an elder to a much younger woman, in whom nevertheless she feels in duty bound to show some special interest.
“I am pleased to meet you,” she said. “I hope you are pleasantly impressed by this place?”
Mrs Conrad was somewhat taken aback.
She covered this at once by turning to the two girls.
“Your daughters, I suppose?” she said, more stiffly than she had intended to speak, for the first glimpse of Frances’ graceful and yet dignified person also tended to bewilder her, and her eyes rested with greater satisfaction on Betty’s less imposing figure and dainty face, out of which two grave dark eyes were looking up, with the unconscious expression of childlike appeal habitual to her when she was feeling shy. And the touch of Elise’s fingers as they met those of the younger girl had a kindly pressure entirely wanting in that which she bestowed upon Frances.
“I feel, after all, that I shall agree with mother,” was the thought that flashed across her mind: “the little one is infinitely the nicer. The elder girl is handsome, but evidently too pleased with herself. Independently of outside circumstances, not at all what we should choose for—” But the consciousness of some pause in the conversation that had followed the Morions’ entrance aroused her to her duties to the visitors, and prevented her from pursuing her private reflections further.
She turned to Frances, who was sitting near her, as she was not sorry to see. For the unfavourable prepossession had by no means diminished her curiosity as to this certainly not “commonplace-looking” girl.