He opened the library door cautiously, and peeped in. A buzz of conversation met their ears.
“It’s all right,” he informed David, in a loud whisper. “She’s not crying.” Then, imitating Higgins, he went forward, and announced, in a stentorian tone of voice, “Mr. Fish!”
Celia rose with some surprise, for she knew no one of that name, and, although it was very foolish of her, she felt her colour rise as David Salmon entered. He was the last person she wished to see just then, for she had not yet recovered from the shock of Geoffrey Milnes’ veiled avowal. She managed to retain her self-possession, however, and, having thanked him for his expression of sympathy, introduced him to her friends.
Lady Marjorie Stonor he had already met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house, and she extended her hand in that hail-fellow-well-met kind of manner which was one of her own particular charms.
“I am sorry you fell into the hands of my small son,” she said with urbanity. “He is a veritable enfant terrible. I never know what he will say or do next. Come here, Bobbie, and let me introduce you to Mr. Salmon.”
But Bobbie had established himself comfortably on the knee of a charming young lady, and did not feel inclined to disturb himself.
“Oh, it’s all right, mother,” he said equably. “We have been ’duced; we knowed each other downstairs. Mr. Salmon’s papa is dead too.”
The charming young lady bent down and whispered something into the little boy’s ear. She was afraid that he would say something that might hurt Celia’s feelings, for his childish mind seemed full of her bereavement. He was very fond of his dear “Cely,” and he did not like to see her look so sad.
David Salmon was awkward and ill at ease. He possessed no interest in common with these stiff and formal county people, and felt that as Celia’s fiancé he was being criticized, and would afterwards be commented upon. He was not sorry when Celia suggested that he should go and hunt up her brother, and, rising with alacrity, went from the room with an air of relief.
He found Herbert Karne in the study, busily attending to a formidable pile of correspondence; and, fearing to intrude, would have withdrawn, but the artist called him in, and made him sit down.