"One doesn't like a man making love to somebody else at the same time. But I dare say I shall get over that. And then—oh, my dear Hilarie, it is such a relief! I cannot tell you what a relief. For, you know, sometimes I seem to think that I did consent."
"And as for my other cousin here?"
"Dick," said Molly, "the fiddle is very light to carry. I shan't feel the weight of it—not a bit. Are you satisfied, Dick?"
[CHAPTER XXII.]
THE CLAN AGAIN.
Once more the relations met together, this time by invitation. They would have preferred separate and individual treatment. Each one received a letter, inviting him or her to the hotel on the afternoon of such a day. Each came expectant, hopeful, confident; and their faces dropped when they found, each in turn, that all had been invited together. They mounted the stairs; they entered the room; they stood about or they sat down in silence. If they spoke, it was to remark in murmurs on the interesting motives of certain persons in connection with rich cousins. The broken one, shabbier than ever, sat hanging his head. "I wouldn't ha' come," he said aloud, "if I'd expected a crowd like this." But the draper of Mare Street, Hackney, stood erect, his hand thrust into his bosom, as one who is gently rocked and lulled upon his own motives, as upon the cradle of the deep.
Presently John Haveril came in, accompanied by Dick, who attended as a kind of private secretary, and took no part in the proceedings until the end.
John carried in his hand a bundle of papers. "Well," he said, "you're all come, I think—all come." He turned over the papers, and nodded to the writer of each letter in turn. "All come. I invited you all to come." He spoke gravely and with dignity—in his most dignified manner.
"First, sir"—the self-constituted spokesman offered his hand—"we trust that you continue in good health, in the midst of your truly colossal responsibilities."