She found Fanny established behind her tea-table in the low room, dim with its oak panelling above the long lines of the bookcases, where Fanny's fluttering smile made movement and a sort of light. Her husband sat facing her in his brown leather chair and in the pose, the wonderful pose of his portrait; only the sobriety of his navy-blue serge had fined it down, giving him a factitious slenderness. He hadn't seen her come in. He sat there in innocence and unawareness; and afterwards it gave her a little pang of remorse remembering how innocent he had then seemed to her and unaware. "This is my husband, Barbara. Horatio, you haven't met Miss Madden." His eyes bulged with the startled innocence of a creature taken unaware. He had just lifted his face, with its dripping moustache, from his teacup, and though he carried off this awkwardness with an unabashed sweep of his pocket-handkerchief, you could see that he was sensitive; he hated you to catch him in any gesture that was less than noble. All his gestures were noble and his attitudes. He was noble as he got up, slowly, unfolding his great height, tightening by a movement of his shoulders his great breadth. He looked down at her superbly and held out his hand; it closed on hers in a large genial clasp. "So this is my secretary, is it?" "Yes. And don't forget she's my companion as well as your secretary." "I never forget anything that you wish me to remember." (Only he said "nevah" and "remembah"; he bowed as he said it in a very courtly way.) Barbara noticed that his black hair and moustache were lightly grizzled, there was loose flesh about his eyelids, his chin had doubled, and his cheeks were sagging from the bone, otherwise he was exactly like his portrait; these changes made him look, if anything, more incorruptibly dignified and more solemn. He had remained on his feet (for his breeding was perfect), moving between the tea-table and Barbara, bringing her tea, milk and sugar, and things to eat. Altogether he was so simple, so genial and unmysterious that Barbara could only suppose that Ralph had been making fun of her, of her wonder, her curiosity. "My dear, what a colour you've got!" Fanny put up her hands to her own cheeks to draw attention to Barbara's. "You _are_ growing a country girl, aren't you? You should have seen her white face when she came, Horatio." "What has she been doing to herself?" He had settled again into his chair and his attitude. "She's been out walking with Ralph." "With Ralph? Is _he_ here still?" "Why shouldn't he be?" Mr. Waddington shrugged his immense shoulders. "It's a question of taste. If he _likes_ to hang about the place after his behaviour--" "Poor boy! whatever has he done? 'Behaviour' makes it sound as if it had been something awful." "We needn't go into it, I think." "But you _are_ going into it, darling, all the time. Do you mean to keep it up against him for ever?"