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‘In that case,’ said Sir Julian, ‘let us go in and beard your grandfather!’
‘You too, sir?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Certainly. I must ask his permission to pay my addresses to you.’
‘To – to –? Oh!’ said Miss Trent in a faint voice.
‘Yes, may I do so?’
Miss Trent swallowed. ‘I have the most lowering feeling that I ought to say it is too sudden, or – or something of that nature,’ she confided.
‘Say what is in your heart! Would it displease you to receive my addresses?’
‘Well, no, it – it wouldn’t displease me – precisely!’ confessed Miss Trent, blushing in the darkness.
‘Then let us instantly seek out your grandfather!’ he said gaily.
They were admitted into the house by an aged retainer who reluctantly showed them into a bleak parlour on the ground floor. He left them with a single candle. Miss Trent said: ‘It is not very – very welcoming, do you think?’
‘Most quelling!’ said Sir Julian.
In a few minutes the door opened again to admit a buxom lady of uncertain years and improbable golden ringlets. She said without preamble: ‘Are you Mr Kennet’s Sophia? He’s that forgetful he must have forgotten to write! However, if you want to see him you may! Step upstairs with me, dearie! Don’t tell me this is Joseph you have brought with you!’
‘Who – who are you?’ gasped Miss Trent, utterly taken aback.
The lady bridled. ‘The name’s Flint,’ she said. ‘But I’m changing it. I was your grandpa’s housekeeper.’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Trent. ‘Then will you have the goodness to take me to my grandfather, if you please?’
Mrs Flint sniffed, but turned to lead the way up one pair of stairs. She opened a door giving on to a large parlour, and said: ‘Here’s your granddaughter, Mr K!’
From a winged arm-chair by the fire a desiccated old gentleman peered at Miss Trent. ‘Well, it’s no use her coming here, because I’ve altered my mind,’ he said. ‘Maria’s girl, hey? Damme if you don’t look like her!’
Mrs Flint, who had taken up a position beside his chair, said with a simper: ‘Me and Mr K. is going to be married.’
‘It’ll be cheaper,’ explained Mr Kennet simply.
Miss Trent sank nervelessly into the nearest chair. Mr Kennet was meanwhile subjecting Sir Julian to a severe scrutiny. ‘A fine buck you’ve turned out to be!’ he pronounced. ‘What’s your name? Joseph?’
‘No,’ said Sir Julian. ‘My name is Julian Arden.’
Both Mr Kennet and his prospective bride stared very hard at him. ‘Mr K., if it isn’t Beau Arden himself!’ palpitated the lady.
‘Are you the son of Percy Arden, who was up at Oxford with me?’ demanded Mr Kennet. ‘Sir Julian Arden?’
‘I am,’ said Sir Julian.
‘What do you want?’ asked the old gentleman suspiciously.
‘To marry your granddaughter,’ replied Sir Julian coolly.
This intelligence produced an instant change in Mr Kennet’s attitude. He rubbed his dry hands together and ejaculated: ‘That’s good! That’s the girl! Come and give me a kiss, Sophy! I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry I said you was like your mother! Damme if I don’t do something handsome by you!’
Miss Trent, submitting unwilling to his embrace, was feeling too dazed by the shocks of the past few minutes to speak, but at this her eyes lit with a faint hope.
‘I will!’ said Mr Kennet, with the air of one reaching a painful decision. ‘You shall have your grandmother’s pearls!’
‘When we’re dead and gone, Mr K.,’ interpolated the future Mrs Kennet firmly.
