“Go into the arbour, dear, and read your letter there,” she suggested kindly. And Lucienne, murmuring she knew not what, got up and left them.
They all looked after her as her white dress vanished through the hedge.
“Poor child!” said Sir William. “It is terrible for her, this separation from Gilbert. This is the first letter she has had from him. A good fellow, didn’t you think, Trenchard?”
“Excellent, sir, I am sure, if a trifle serious for his age—you’ll forgive my criticising a kinsman of yours, I hope.”
“That seriousness is just what I liked in him,” replied the Squire. “He might have been an Englishman. None of your confounded French airs and graces, like that young scamp of a cousin of his.”
“Why, papa, I am sure,” protested Amelia, “you yourself spoilt Louis de Saint-Ermay when he was over here!”
“Well, well,” said her parent, not denying the charge, “I daresay I did. I am afraid that young reprobate always has been spoilt, and always will be.”
But Trenchard had a sudden vision of the spoilt child of fortune with his fettered arm and his set, smiling mouth as they jogged along the interminable road to Candé. “Still, do you know,” he said frankly, “I was very much taken with him. He was hurt, you know, but he—— Ah, here is Mademoiselle coming back.”
Amelia got up to meet her guest. Trenchard reflected that the girl had not spent much time over her lover’s letter. On the other hand, the missive had undoubtedly had a salutary effect upon her appearance; she looked much happier than she had done when she took it from him. He supposed—and had a glow of self-congratulation on his perspicacity—that she had hurried back in order to hear from him further details about her betrothed. Well, to furnish her with such would be a pleasant enough occupation.
“Mademoiselle will no doubt want to hear more about Monsieur le Marquis,” he said in pursuance of this idea. “Anything further which I can tell her is very much at her service.”