Edwin was a fairly conspicuous object at the dining-room window. As
Janet and the child drew level with the corner her eye accidentally
caught Edwin's. He nodded, smiling, and took the cigarette out of his
mouth and waved it. They were old friends. He was surprised to notice
that Janet blushed and became self-conscious. She returned his smile
awkwardly, and then, giving a gesture to signify her intention, she came
in at the gate. Which action surprised Edwin still more. With all her
little freedoms of manner, Janet was essentially a woman stately and
correct, and time had emphasised these qualities in her. It was not in
the least like her to pay informal, capricious calls at a quarter to ten
in the morning.
He went to the front door and opened it. She was persuading the child
up the tiled steps. The breeze dashed gaily into the house.
"Good morning. You're out early."
"Good morning. Yes. We've just been down to the post-office to send
off a telegram, haven't we, George?"
She entered the hall, the boy following, and shook hands, meeting
Edwin's gaze fairly. Her esteem for him, her confidence in him, shone
in her troubled, candid eyes. She held herself proudly, mastering her
curious constraint. "Now just see that!" she said, pointing to a fleck
of black mud on the virgin elegance of her pale brown costume. Edwin
thought anew, as he had often thought, that she was a distinguished and
delightful piece of goods. He never ceased to be flattered by her
regard. But with harsh masculine impartiality he would not minimise to
himself the increasing cleft under her chin, nor the deterioration of
her once brilliant complexion.
"Well, young man!" Edwin greeted the boy with that insolent familiarity
which adults permit themselves to children who are perfect strangers.
"I thought I'd just run in and introduce my latest nephew to you," said
Janet quickly, adding, "and then that would be over."
"Oh!" Edwin murmured. "Come into the drawing-room, will you? Maggie's
upstairs."
They passed into the drawing-room, where a servant in striped print was
languidly caressing the glass of a bookcase with a duster. "You can
leave this a bit," Edwin said curtly to the girl, who obsequiously
acquiesced and fled, forgetting a brush on a chair.
"Sit down, will you?" Edwin urged awkwardly. "And which particular
nephew is this? I may tell you he's already raised a great deal of
curiosity in the town."
Janet most unusually blushed again.
"Has he?" she replied. "Well, he isn't my nephew at all really, but we
pretend he is, don't we, George? It's cosier. This is Master George
Cannon."
"Cannon? You don't mean--"
"You remember Mrs Cannon, don't you? Hilda Lessways? Now, Georgie,
come and shake hands with Mr Clayhanger."
But George would not.