Theodora looked, but did not speak.
‘Miss Martindale thinks me a laggard, but she hears my excuse.’
‘If they are ill-disposed,’ said Theodora, in her low, severe voice (she could not help it), ‘it is for want of influence from the right quarter.’
‘My agent tells me they are perfectly impracticable.’
‘Knights of old liked something impracticable.’ She was almost ready to check herself; but there was something inspiriting in the idea of awakening this youth, who seemed to catch at her words as if she were a damsel sending forth a champion. His reply was—
‘Those were days worth living for. Then the knight’s devoir was poetry in real life.’
‘Devoir is always poetry in real life,’ said Theodora. ‘What is it but the work ready to hand? Shrinking from it is shrinking from the battle. Come, Lady Lucy, I will not detain you.’
Lord St. Erme seemed about to say something as he shook hands, but it did not come. The walk was passed by the simple-hearted Lucy discoursing of the events by which she counted her eras, namely, his visits. Her perfect brother was her only theme.