“No, something old, but restored. Don’t you remember the last day you were here saying that the silence of this old court wanted the pleasant plash of a fountain? and so I got these disabled nymphs and hamadryads remounted, and set them to blow their conchs and spout the cataracts as of yore.”
“How beautiful it all is!”
“Curious enough, the figures are really good. Some worthy ancestor of mine had purchased this group at Urbino from some ruined Italian mansion; and, as a work of art, it is almost equal to a Luca della Robb. The mistake is the era. It is not suited to this old dungeon. Here we are in the tenth century, and this group is cinque cento. Let me send it to the cottage. It would be perfect in your garden.”
“Not for worlds. I couldn’t think of it!”
“Don’t think of it, but say ‘Yes.’ Remember, that in villa ornamentation nothing comes amiss; there are no incongruities.”
“It is impossible, Sir Within—quite impossible.”
“Don’t imagine we have come here as brigands,” said Miss Courtenay, smiling.
“When you carry away my heart, what matters what is left me?” said he, sighing.
Miss Courtenay looked down—it was a bashful look, but not a displeased one—and, somehow, more conscious than the compliment of so old a gentleman might seem to warrant.
“And so Sir Gervais likes Ireland?” said he, as he introduced them into the drawing-room.