“After all,” said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, “it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing.”
With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions.
After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening.
Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker’s announcement that “the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room.”
His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean.
“I’ll come presently,” said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal.
For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more.
Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an “occasion,” and worked up accordingly, “I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son’s brave conduct on the ice to-day.”
“Hear, hear, ma!” cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. “I beg leave to second that.”