“You old goose,” said Miss Verinder to the culprit, as she returned to the drawing-room. “It’s all right. Mrs. Bell has gone. But that was a narrow squeak.”
“All right,” said Louisa, loudly repeating the words of her mistress. “She’s gone.”
And next moment a great big laughing man came into the drawing-room.
“Anthony,” said Miss Verinder, “you’re a very naughty boy to be so late. Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Oh, this room,” he cried ecstatically. “This room! Let me look at it.”
“You saw it last night.”
“But by lamp-light. It’s by daylight that I always see it in my dreams. I want to feel that I am really in it—awake and not dreaming. Let me touch things.” And he moved about, putting his hands softly on pieces of furniture, cautiously picking up delicate fragile bits of china, admiring them, and putting them down again.
“Tony, your breakfast.”
“Oh, damn the breakfast. Don’t you understand what these moments are to me?” And he told her for the hundredth time how he carried with him always the whole of this room in his thoughts—a picture of it and its minutest details so indelible that thought instantaneously recreated it. He was verifying the picture now. If there was anything changed, anything missing, he would certainly know. “And now let me look at you.” He said this with infinite pride and love. “My girl—my own little girl.” He was holding her hands apart, as he always did, while these first transports lasted, so that her arms were opened and she could not push him from her. “Emmie—my darling.” Emmie, under this attack, was vainly struggling to maintain her dignified primness of manner; she uttered bashful remonstrances, hanging her head, laughing and blushing, but was in rapturous joy all the while. “Angel of my life”; and suddenly he took possession of her, hugged her, and smothered her warm face with kisses.
Louisa brought in the tardy rolls while he was doing it, and as if blind and preoccupied went out again.