"In that case I will see them myself, though it is an unconscionable hour—not at all a good beginning."...
The woman and her son had been shown into the smoking-room. When Wilhelmine entered, the pair bowed respectfully.
The would-be groom was a nice-looking lad, and gave the impression of being superior to the common run of his class and calling. Agreeably surprised, Wilhelmine asked to see his references: she wished to make sure that they were in order; preliminaries, through the medium of an agent, had been gone into some days before. The woman displayed them, announcing in a loud, harsh voice:
"I am his mother!"
This mother was as unpleasant to behold as her son was the contrary, thought Wilhelmine.
She was a stout, vulgar, clumsy creature, enveloped in a large shawl of many colours which did not hide her obesity. The old termagant's face seemed all paint and large gold-rimmed spectacles, and peering eyes. This grotesque visage was shaded by a flowered veil.
"What a horrid old creature!" thought Wilhelmine, as she listened with scarcely concealed distaste to the woman's voluble praises of her son's qualities.... According to her, he was a marvel of marvels.
Monsieur de Naarboveck remained in the library pacing up and down, smoking an expensive cigar. Wilhelmine did not return. Feeling sleepy, he quitted the room and went down the long gallery at a leisurely pace. The reception rooms opened on to it. The spacious entrance hall was visible from the wrought-iron balustrade bordering this gallery.
The baron stopped. He listened. Surely there were voices in animated discussion in the vestibule! Yes. Men were arguing with the porter—insisting.... The porter was coming up. The baron went down to meet him. Two men, in derby hats and tightly buttoned overcoats, confronted him. They carried neither stick nor umbrella, their hands were gloveless. There was an air of suppressed haste about them. They saluted. One of the two offered his card. The baron read: