All the guests were standing in a small morning-room, taking coffee; and Brandon presently walking out of the French window into the garden, came up to the dining-room outside.  There was Dorothea.

“Love,” she said, looking out, “what do you think?  Some of these names have been changed.”

“Perhaps a waft of wind floated them off the plates,” said Brandon, climbing in over the window-ledge, “and the servants restored them amiss.  But, Mrs. Brandon, don’t you think if that baby of yours squalls again after lunch, he had better drink his own health himself somewhere else?  I say, how nice you look, love!—­I like that gown.”

“He must come in, St. George; but do attend to business—­look!”

“Whew!” exclaimed Brandon, having inspected the plates; “it must have been a very intelligent waft of wind that did this.”

Two minutes after Brandon sauntered in again by the window, and John Mortimer observed the door.  When Mrs. Brandon entered, she saw him standing on the rug keeping Emily in conversation.  Mrs. Brandon admired Mr. Mortimer; he was tall, fair, stately, and had just such a likeness to Valentine as could not fail to be to his advantage in the opinion of any one who, remembering Valentine’s smiling face, small forehead, and calm eyes, sees the same contour of countenance, with an expression at once grave and sweet; features less regular, but with a grand intellectual brow, and keen blue eyes—­not so handsome as Valentine’s, but with twice as direct an outlook and twice as much tenderness of feeling in them; and has enough insight to perceive the difference of character announced by these varieties in the type.

John Mortimer, who was persistently talking to Emily, felt that Brandon’s eyes were upon him, and that he looked amused.  He never doubted that his work had been observed, and that his wish would be respected.

“Luncheon’s on the table.”

“John,” said Brandon instantly, “will you take in my wife?”

John obeyed.  He knew she did not sit at the head of the table, so he took it and placed her on his right, while Emily and her curate were on his left.  It was a very large party, but during the two minutes they had been alone together Brandon and Dorothea had altered the whole arrangement of it.

John saw that Brandon had given to him his own usual place, and had taken the bottom of the table.  He thought his own way of managing that matter would have been simpler, but he was very well content, and made himself highly agreeable till there chanced to be a little cessation of the clatter of plates, and a noticeable pause in the conversation.  Then Justina began to play her part.

“Mr. Mortimer,” she said, leaning a little before Emily’s curate, “this is not at all too late for the north of Italy, is it?  I want to visit Italy.”

“I should not set out so late in the year,” John answered.  “I should not stay even at Florence a day later than the end of May.”