Whatsoever lay at the root of his being what he was and as he was, he somehow changed the aspect of things for her, and without doing anything but be himself, cleared the atmosphere of her dread of the surprise and mental reservations of the footmen and Burrill when she came down to dinner in her high-necked, much-cleaned, and much-repaired black silk, and with no more distinguishing change in her toilet than a white lace cap instead of a black one, and with “poor dear mama’s” hair bracelet with the gold clasp on her wrist, and a weeping-willow made of “poor dear papa’s” hair in a brooch at her collar.
It was so curious, though still “nice,” but he did not offer her his arm when they were going into the dining-room, and he took hold of hers with his hand and affectionately half led, half pushed, her along with him as they went. And he himself drew back her chair for her at the end of the table opposite his own. He did not let a footman do it, and he stood behind it, talking in his cheerful way all the time, and he moved it to exactly the right place, and then actually bent down and looked under the table.
“Here,” he said to the nearest man-servant, “where’s there a footstool? Get one, please,” in that odd, simple, almost aristocratic way. It was not a rude or dictatorial way, but a casual way, as though he knew the man was there to do things, and he didn’t expect any time to be wasted.
And it was he himself who arranged the footstool, making it comfortable for her, and then he went to his own chair at the head of the table and sat down, smiling at her joyfully across the glass and silver and flowers.
“Push that thing in the middle on one side, Burrill,” he said. “It’s too high. I can’t see Miss Alicia.”
Burrill found it difficult to believe the evidence of his hearing.
“Is that what it’s called, an apern? That’s a new one on me. Yes, that’s what I mean. Push the apern over.”
“Shall I remove it from the table, sir?” Burrill steeled himself to exact civility. Of what use to behave otherwise? There always remained the liberty to give notice if the worst came to the worst, though what the worst might eventually prove to be it required a lurid imagination to depict. The epergne was a beautiful thing of crystal and gold, a celebrated work of art, regarded as an exquisite possession. It was almost remarkable that Mr. Temple Barholm had not said, “Shove it on one side,” but Burrill had been spared the poignant indignity of being required to “shove.”