I found the mistress of the house in the drawing-room, hastily stamping letters for the evening post. As she rose and offered me an affectionate embrace, her keen dark eyes swept me with one swift glance and she said:
“So glad to see you, Eva! I am sorry I have been away until to-day. You must have found it terribly dull, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no,” I answered mendaciously. “Uncle is very kind, and takes me about with him. He lends me ‘Old Soldier,’ and on the days he doesn’t hunt we go for long rides.”
“You are grown up now,” she said, drawing me towards the sofa, “and not a Lingard, like your brother! You look such a vivid, youthful, happy creature, you must be a Mostyn. I remember hearing that your mother had masses of wonderful hair and such smiling grey eyes.”
“Are my eyes smiling?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she assented. “I noticed them when you were here two years ago—sunny eyes, I would call them. Now come and let us have a nice talk and tell me all about yourself.”
“There’s so little to tell. If you knew Beke, you would understand.”
“You are quite strong, I can see—the picture of health. I am sure you are glad of the change and looking for a little excitement, and things to happen, are you not?”
After we had talked about the family and the forthcoming marriage, my aunt’s bronchitis and the professor’s enormities, there was a slight pause, and I was surprised to hear myself saying:
“Mrs. Paget-Taylor, you know everybody and everything. I should be so grateful if you would tell me a little about my parents. Whenever I ask my aunt her answers are vague. I have my mother’s picture, and I know she died in France, and that my father was so broken-hearted that he threw up his commission and disappeared to America, where he died.”