The only wonder is that, at the end of our greetings, we have a feature left among us.
When at length they are ended-- "Well," say I, studiedly, with a long sigh of content, staring from one countenance to another, with a broad grin on my own.

"Well!" and though I have been away _four_ weeks, and been to foreign parts, and dined at _table d'hotes_ and seen Crucifixions and Madonnas, and seem to have more to tell than could be crowded into a closely-packed twelvemonth of talk, this is all I can find to say.
"Well," reply they, nor do they seem to be much richer in conversation than I.
Bobby is the first to regain the use of his tongue.

He says, "My eye!" (oh, dear and familiar expletive, for a whole calendar month I have not heard you!)--"my eye! what a swell you are!" Meanwhile Sir Roger stands aloof.

If he _ever_ thought of himself, he might be reasonably and equitably huffy at being so entirely neglected, for I will do them the justice to say that I think they have all utterly forgotten his existence: but, as he never does, I suppose he is not; at least there is only a friendly entertainment, and no hurt dignity, in the gentle strength of his face.
In the exuberance of my happiness, I have given him free leave to kiss Barbara and Tou Tou, but the poor man does not seem to be likely to have the chance.
"Are not you going to speak to the general ?" I say, nudging Barbara.
"You have never said 'How do you do ?' to him." Thus admonished, they recover their presence of mind and turn to salute him.

There are no kissings, however, only some rather formal hand-shakings; and then Algy, as being possessed of the nearest approach to manners of the family, walks on with him.