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Fowler’s fiance (I had not known he was a widower) come to say that
his father was prevented from dining by a sudden attack of gout. But
his eyes fell immediately on Mrs. Fowler, his face lit up, and he went
towards her with both hands outstretched. Mrs. Fowler gave him hers,
a demure smile on her lips, and turned to her sister-in-law.
“This is my young man, Marion,” she said.
He held out his hand.
“I hope you’ll like me, Mrs. Tower,” he said. “Jane tells me
you’re the only relation she has in the world.”
Mrs. Tower’s face was wonderful to behold. I saw then to
admiration how bravely good breeding and social usage could combat
the instincts of the natural woman. For the astonishment and then the
dismay that for an instant she could not conceal were quickly driven
away, and her face assumed an expression of affable welcome. But
she was evidently at a loss for words. It was not unnatural if Gilbert
felt a certain embarrassment, and I was too busy preventing myself
from laughing to think of anything to say. Mrs. Fowler alone kept
perfectly calm.
“I know you’ll like him, Marion. There’s no [who] one enjoys
good food more than he does.” She turned to the young man.
“Marion’s dinners are famous.”
“I know,” he beamed.
Mrs. Tower made some quick rejoinder and we went
downstairs. I shall not soon forget the exquisite comedy of that meal.
Mrs. Tower could not make up her mind whether the pair of them
were playing a practical joke on her or whether Jane by wilfully
concealing her fiance’s age had hoped to make her look foolish. But
then Jane never jested and she was incapable of doing a malicious
thing. Mrs. Tower was amazed, exasperated, and perplexed. But she
had recovered her self-control, and for nothing would she have
forgotten that she was a perfect hostess whose duty it was to make
her party go. She talked vivaciously; but I wondered if Gilbert Napier
saw how hard and vindictive was the expression of her eyes behind
the mask of friendliness that she turned to him. She was measuring
him. She was seeking to delve into the secret of his soul. I could see
that she was in a passion, for under her rouge her cheeks glowed with
an angry red.
“You’ve got a very high colour, Marion,” said Jane, looking at
her amiably through great round spectacles.