The Real Charlotte, 323 



CHAPTER XLIII. 



Hawkins had, like Mrs. Baker, been in no hurry to call 

 upon the bride. He had seen her twice in church, he had 

 once met her out driving with her husband, and, lastly, he 

 had come upon her face to face in the principal street of 

 Lismoyle, and had received a greeting of aristocratic hauteur, 

 as remarkable as the newly acquired English accent in 

 which it was delivered. After these things a visit to her 

 was unavoidable, and, in spite of a bad conscience, he felt, 

 when he at last set out for Rosemount, an excitement that 

 was agreeable after the calm of life at Lismoyle. 



There was no one in the drawing-room when he was 

 shown into it, and as the maid closed the door behind him 

 he heard a quick step run through the hall and up the 

 stairs. *' Gone to put on her best bib and tucker," he said 

 to himself with an increase of confidence ; " I'll bet she saw 

 me coming." The large photograph alluded to by Miss 

 Baker was on the chimneypiece, and he walked over and 

 examined it with great interest. It obeyed the traditions of 

 honeymoon portraits, and had the inevitable vulgarity of 

 such ; Lambert, sitting down, turned the leaves of a book, 

 and Francie, standing behind him, rested one hand on his 

 shoulder, while the other held a basket of flowers. In spite 

 of its fatuity as a composition, both portraits were good, and 

 they had moreover an air of prosperity and new clothes that 

 Mr. Hawkins found to be almost repulsive. He studied the 

 photograph with deepening distaste until he was aware of a 

 footstep at the door, and braced himself for the encounter, 

 with his heart beating uncomfortably and unexpectedly. 



They shook hands with the politeness of slight acquaint- 

 ance, and sat down, Hawkins thinking he had never seen 

 her look so pretty or so smart, and wondering what he was 

 going to talk to her about. It was evidently going to be 

 war to the knife, he thought, as he embarked haltingly upon 

 the weather, and found that he was far less at his ease than 

 he had expected to be. 



"Yes, it's warmer here than it was in England," said P'rancie, 

 looking languidly at the rings on her left hand ; " we were 

 perished there after Paris." 



