Oh, no. The person was adequately, if queerly dressed; a great big tall man, wearing a grey suit and a slouch hat. It was rather his commanding air, the way he brandished his arms, and so on, that had displeased and frightened Miss Marchant.
Then—what was exceedingly rare with her—Mrs. Verinder had an inspiration, or an intuition.
“A bearded man?”
“Yes.”
“A man with a red beard, and rather high cheekbones—a great big man?”
“Yes, yes.”
It was that Dyke—the explorer. Although no worse, Mrs. Verinder was, of course, very much upset by it; but she displayed a satisfaction that she was very far from feeling.
“Oh, really!” she said, tittering effectively. “You may be quite at ease, Miss Marchant. It is quite all right, thank you. He is a valued friend of the family. No more a friend of Emmeline’s than the rest of us. But I don’t think I shall tell you his name,” she added, acting playful reproachfulness. “I don’t think you deserve it—No, I am not in the least offended. I’ll at least tell you this—” and for a moment hesitating whether to cloak herself with cold dignity or put on a mask of cordialness, she chose the smiles—“he is dining with us on the twelfth, and although unfortunately, our table is made up, so that I cannot ask you to meet him at dinner, I shall be very glad indeed if you and Mrs. Jones will look in afterwards. That is, if you have nothing better to do.”
Miss Marchant withdrew, puzzled and crestfallen.
Immediately Mrs. Verinder despatched a message upstairs requesting Miss Emmeline to come down to the morning-room. She had determined to talk to her daughter without delay, but quite lightly, with a simulation of unconcern. It is always wisest with young people not to show them that you have been fluttered by any act of theirs.