"I'm glad it was run up in time for us to take it," she said, thinking she would try the effect of a little chaff.
The effect was nothing; Harry Tristram took no notice of the remark.
"I see," he observed, "from your calling me Fitzhubert that you've been looking up our recent history."
"Oh, just what there is in the 'Peerage.'" Her look was mischievous now, but she restrained herself from any hint of special knowledge. "I'll tell you as much of ours some day."
She broke into a laugh, and then, carried away by the beauty of the scene, the river and the stately peaceful old house by it, she stretched out her hands toward Blent Hall, exclaiming:
"But we haven't anything like that in our history!"
He turned to look with her, and stood in silence for a minute or two. Then he spoke softly.
"Yes, I love it," he said.
She glanced at him; his eyes were tender. Turning, he saw her glance. In a moment he seemed to veil his eyes and to try to excuse the sentimental tone of his remark by a matter-of-fact comment: