‘It’s incomprehensible,’ Edward answered moodily. ‘The more I puzzle over it, the less I understand it. But as a lady has called at last, of course, darling, you’d better come in at once and see her.’
They walked together, full of curiosity, into the drawing-room. The two gentlemen rose simultaneously as they entered. To Marian’s surprise, it was Dr Whitaker and his father; and with them had come—a brown lady.
Marian was unaffectedly glad to see their late travelling companion; but it was certainly a shock to her, unprejudiced as she was, that the very first and only woman who had called upon her in Trinidad should be a mulatto. However, she tried to bear her disappointment bravely, and sat down to do the honours as well as she was able to her unexpected visitors.
‘My daughtah!’ the elder brown man said ostentatiously, with an expansive wave of his greasy left hand towards the mulatto lady—‘Miss Euphemia Fowell-Buxton Duchess-of-Sutherland Whitaker.’
Marian acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow, and bit her lip. She stole a look at Dr Whitaker, and saw at once upon his face an unwonted expression of profound dejection and disappointment.
‘An’ how do you like Trinidad, Mrs Hawtorn?’ Miss Euphemia asked with a society simper; while Edward began engaging in conversation with the two men. ‘You find de excessiveness of de temperature prejudicial to salubrity, after de delicious equability of de English climate?’
‘Well,’ Marian assented smiling, ‘I certainly do find it very hot.’
‘Oh, exceedingly,’ Miss Euphemia replied, as she mopped her forehead violently with a highly scented lace-edged cambric pocket-handkerchief. ‘De heat is most oppressive, most unendurable. I could wring out me handkerchief, I assure you, Mrs Hawtorn, wit de extraordinary profusion of me perspiration.’
‘But this is summer, you must remember,’ Dr Whitaker put in nervously, endeavouring in vain to distract attention for the moment from Miss Euphemia’s conversational peculiarities. ‘In winter, you know, we shall have quite delightful English weather on the hills—quite delightful English weather.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the father went on with a broad smile. ‘In winter, Mrs Hawtorn, ma’am, you will be glad to drink a glass of rum-and-milk sometimes, I tell you, to warm de blood on dese chilly hilltops.’