"Ah, here you are! Delightful of you to come!" he cried. "Now, let me guess you!"
"Yes, yes. Now let's see--don't tell me your name."
He drew back a step, surveyed Mr. Delane's portly figure, his dignified carriage, his plain solid watch-chain, his square-toed strong boots.
"The Squire!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Delane, isn't it?"
"Good! You don't mind being guessed, do you? It's so much more amusing. What will you have?"
"Thank you, I've lunched, Mr. Bannister."
"Have you? We've just breakfasted--had a ride before, you know. But I must introduce you."
He searched the floor, picked up the cigar, looked at it regretfully, and threw it out of an open window.
"This," he resumed, waving his hand toward the piano, "is Mrs. Ernest Hodge. This is Miss Fane, Mrs. Hodge's daughter--no, not by a first marriage; everybody suggests that. Professional name, you know--she sings. Hodge really wouldn't do, would it, Mrs. Hodge? This is Philip Hume. This is Arthur Angell, who writes verses--like me. This is--but I expect you know these gentlemen?"
Mr. Delane peered through the smoke which Philip Hume was producing from a long pipe, and to his amazement discerned three familiar faces: those of Dr. Roberts, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone. The Doctor was flushed and looked excited; the Mayor was a picture of dignified complacency; Johnstone appeared embarrassed and uncomfortable, for his bald head was embellished with a flowery garland. Dale saw Mr. Delane's eyes rest on this article.
"We always crown anybody who adds to our knowledge," he explained. "He gets a wreath of honor. The Alderman added to our knowledge of the expense of building a room. So Miss Fane crowned him."
An appreciative chuckle from the Mayor followed this explanation; he knocked the butt of his cue against the floor, and winked at Philip Hume.
The last-named, seeing that Mr. Delane was somewhat surprised at the company, came up to him and said:
"Come and sit down; Dale never remembers that anybody wants a seat. Here's an armchair."
Mr. Delane sat down next to Miss Fane, and noticed, even in his perturbation, that his neighbor was a remarkably pretty girl, with fair hair clustering in a thick mass on the nape of her neck, and large blue eyes which left gazing on Dale Bannister when their owner turned to greet him. Mr. Delane would have enjoyed talking to her, had not his soul been vexed at the presence of the three Denborough men. One did not expect to meet the tradesmen of the town; and what business had the Doctor there? To spend Sunday in that fashion would not increase his popularity or his practice. And then that nonsense about the wreath! How undignified it was! it was even worse than yelling out Nihilistic verses by way of Sabbath amusement.