"You need not try. They are not in the least replicas of each other. Emmanuel de la Roche-Guyon was never like his brother, of that I am sure."
"It is sad for him to be practically an exile," observed Horatia.
Tristram merely looked at her, then at the laughing group in the middle of the room, and raised his eyebrows. Horatia smiled in spite of herself.
"I see what you mean. Well, I will bestow my sympathy better. It is sad for the Duke to be in exile at Lulworth, with Charles X."
Tristram lowered his voice. "My dear Horatia, there are compensations even in banishment. Imagine living under the same roof with all the relatives you ever had—with, say, your great-grandmother, your grandmother, all your great-aunts, your brothers, your nephews.... That is what the French generally mean by family life—a kind of hotel, with the additional drawback of knowing intimately all the other occupants. They have not our idea of the home that grows up round two people."
Once again Horatia was conscious of that new quality in Tristram's voice, once again she could disregard it, for before she had time to make a reply of any sort she perceived that the Comte de la Roche-Guyon was free, and was coming towards them.
"Ah, here you are!" said Tristram, getting up. "Take my place, and talk to Miss Grenville for a little." Going off, he crossed the room to speak to a neglected spinster in a corner.
M. de la Roche-Guyon sat down in his vacated place without more ado. He gave one glance round the room, and said, "Si nous causions un peu en français?"
His eyes, as dancing and daring as they had been sad yesterday, challenged her to more than conversation in a foreign tongue. And something in Horatia's soul responded.
"Volontiers, Monsieur. What shall we talk about?"