“And he ought to be none the less welcome,” added Blanche, “when he is accompanied by your wife’s oldest and dearest friend.”
Geoffrey looked, in stolid submission, from one to the other.
“I am not much versed in these things,” he repeated. “I have said already, I leave it to you.”
They were by this time close under Anne’s window. She showed herself. Sir Patrick took off his hat. Blanche kissed her hand with a cry of joy, and attempted to enter the cottage. Geoffrey stopped her—and called to his wife to come down.
“No! no!” said Blanche. “Let me go up to her in her room.”
She attempted for the second time to gain the stairs. For the second time Geoffrey stopped her. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said; “she is coming down.”
Anne joined them in the front garden. Blanche flew into her arms and devoured her with kisses. Sir Patrick took her hand in silence. For the first time in Anne’s experience of him, the bright, resolute, self-reliant old man was, for the moment, at a loss what to say, at a loss what to do. His eyes, resting on her in mute sympathy and interest, said plainly, “In your husband’s presence I must not trust myself to speak.”
Geoffrey broke the silence.
“Will you go into the drawing-room?” he asked, looking with steady attention at his wife and Blanche.
Geoffrey’s voice appeared to rouse Sir Patrick. He raised his head—he looked like himself again.