“Never mind what she costs. I wished to prove to you both how much I loved you and desired to do you honour. And now, my dear, I perceive that you are ready, let us go down. I have not seen Walter yet, and am longing to put my arms round his dear neck before any one else arrives and forces me into a formality that my heart would resent.”
She turned and led the way downstairs. Florence followed meekly, feeling almost shabby and altogether left in the shade by the magnificent relation who had appeared for their simple party.
Aunt Anne trod with the footstep of one who knew the house well; she opened the drawing-room door with an air of precision, and going towards Walter, who met her halfway across the room, dropped her head with its white cap on his shoulder.
“My dear Walter, no words can express how glad I am to see you again, to meet you in your own house, in your own room. It makes me forget all I have suffered since we parted; it even forces me to be gay,” she murmured, in an almost sobbing tone.
“Yes, dear, of course it does,” he said cheerily, giving her a kiss. “And we are very glad to see you. Why, you look uncommonly well; and, I say, what an awful swell you are—isn’t she, Floggie?”
“He is precisely the same—the same as ever,” laughed out the old lady just as she had at Brighton seven years before. “Precisely the same. Oh, my dear Walter, I shall——”
But here the door opened, and for the moment Mr. Wimple’s arrival put an end to Aunt Anne’s remembrances.
Mr. Wimple was evidently conscious of his evening clothes; his waistcoat was cut so as to show as much white shirt as possible; his tie looked a little rumpled, as though the first attempt at making a bow had not been successful. He shook hands solemnly with his host and hostess, then looked round almost sadly, and in a voice that was full of grave meaning said it was cold and chilly.
“Cough better?” Walter inquired.
“Yes, it is better,” Mr. Wimple replied slowly after a moment’s consideration, as if the question was a momentous one.