Immediately after the interesting announcement congratulations and presents began to pour in upon them. At tea-time on these jolly autumn afternoons spent by Sir Anthony and his fiancée in shops and streets and other public places, Louisa brought in with her tray prodigious piles of letters, which her future master tore open, read aloud, and tossed about the floor delightedly.
“One from old Barry! Bless his heart. Hear what he says, Emmie.”
It was at the pleasant tea hour, while he opened more and more letters, that she asked about the date entered in her memorandum book before the death of his father. She wished to know if he had been thinking specially of home on that night of April 18-19.
“Well, you know, I was thinking about you all the time, off and on; but I can’t say I remember thinking about you more on one day than another.... Postmark, Clapham, S. W.!” He was opening a letter. “No. You see, we had our work cut out for us. Our thoughts were pretty well occupied. By Jove. This is from dear old Cairns. I must write to Cairns—a special invitation for Cairns. What!”
He was like a child when it came to opening the presents. He could not wait a moment. He burst the stout string with his hands, he made the brown paper explode in tatters, he flung the tissue all over the room. His litter drove Louisa to distraction.
“What the devil are these? Menu-card holders! What the devil shall we do with them? All the same, deuced kind of her. Mrs. Slane-King! Yes.”
He was also like a child—and a spoilt child too—with his press-cuttings. He had mock-modest smiles as he read the eulogies.
“‘A glory to the Empire!’ That’s very handsome of them to say that. Emmie, that tickles my vanity.” Then he roared with laughter. “How small we are, Emmie; how vain, how jealous. But you must check me. Hold me on a leash. Don’t let me gas about things down in Devonshire when I begin to get old. Watch me then—and don’t let me develop into a twaddling old bore.”
He went on with the letters and parcels.