Matthias laughed a little, quietly: no good trying to carry off this situation; by many a clue aside from Joan's confusion, they were betrayed.
"You've caught us," he said cheerfully. "We may as well own up. Helena, this is Joan--Miss Thursday--my fiancée. And Joan, this is my aunt, Mrs. Tankerville--and her husband."
And immediately he was conscious of the necessity of bridging the pause that would inevitably hold these three confounded, pending adjustment to his amazing announcement.
"We had intended to keep it quiet for a while," he pursued evenly, shutting the door.... "Helena, let me help you with that cloak.... But since you've declared yourselves in, we can only ask you to hold your peace until we're ready. I'm sure we can count on you both."
Tankerville puffed an explosive: "Oh--certainly!"
Helena glanced shrewdly from Joan to Matthias. He smiled his confidence in her, knowing that he might count upon her doing the right thing to put the girl at ease--just shoulders of the girl as positively as he might count upon her violent opposition to the match as soon as she discovered that he had engaged himself to her pet abomination, a woman of the stage.
With a bright nod to him, she turned back to Joan; drew slowly near to her; dropped kindly hands upon the shoulders of the girl.
"But, my dear!" she exclaimed in a tone of expostulation--"you are beautiful!"
Escorting his aunt to the car, Matthias helped her in, closed the door, and then, with a grin of amused resignation masking that trepidation to which he was actually a prey, folded his arms on the top of the door and invited the storm with one word of whimsical accent: "Well?"
"Is it true?" she demanded, as if downright incredulous.
"Most true," he insisted with convincing simplicity.
The tip of one gloved finger to her chin, Helena considered remotely.
"She's very beautiful," she conceded, "and sweet and fetching and hopelessly plebeian. She'd be wonderful to have around, to look at; but to listen to.... Oh my dear! what _are_ you thinking of?"
"Cut it," Tankerville advised from his corner. "None of your funeral, old lady."
"That consideration never yet hindered a Matthias," his wife retorted--"or a Tankerville, either, as far as I've been gifted to observe. However"--she turned again to her nephew--"you are presumably in love, and I hope you'll be happy, if ever you marry her. I shan't interfere--don't be afraid--but ... I could murder Venetia for this!"