Chapter Nineteen.
Unsatisfactory.
If Mrs Littlewood’s intention had been to meet the newcomer in the hall, and by the exercise of some diplomacy prevent his joining the party of ladies in the drawing-room, it was frustrated. For before she reached the door it was thrown open, not by a servant, but by Horace himself. An expression of surprise crossed his face on first catching sight of the six or seven occupants of the room, to be, however, quickly replaced by a smile of pleasure and slightly heightened colour.
“So glad I am in time for a cup of tea,” he said; “I was in luck to find the dog-cart waiting for Con at the station—don’t be afraid, Elise, I’ve sent it straight back again—I wasn’t expected,” he continued, to Lady Emma, as he shook hands with her, then with Betty, who happened to come next, and lastly with Frances, on whose fingers he bestowed an earnest pressure which brought the colour into her cheeks, this latter incident, slight as it was, not passing unperceived by Elise’s observant eyes.
Then things settled down again, Horace accepting his position as the only man of the party with perfect equanimity, and availing himself with satisfaction of the resources of the tea-table, going on to explain that he had had no luncheon and was as hungry as a hawk.
“That’s what men always say,” observed Madeleine. “I mean they always have some excuse ready if they have a weakness for afternoon-tea.”
“I’m not ashamed of an honest appetite at any time,” said Horace. “May I have some more sandwiches, Madeleine?”
“My dear boy,” said his mother, “you will spoil your dinner, to use a commonplace expression. Do you know what o’clock it is?” At these words Lady Emma made a slight movement, as if in preparation for going. Mrs Littlewood turned at once, laying a detaining hand on her arm.
“Please don’t think of leaving us yet,” she said, “it is only a little past six. The evenings are so light now.”