"How very romantic!" says Lilian; "it is just like a story."
"Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of Otranto,'" says Cyril. "Has she any one living with her, Guy?" carelessly.
"Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier."
"I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self."
"I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage."
"That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?" says Lady Chetwoode mildly.
"It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death."
"Well, I shan't distress her by calling," says Lady Chetwoode, who is naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing message—for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards it—has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an acknowledged dislike.
"I wonder how she means to employ her time down here," says Cyril. "Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people. After a while they are apt to pall."
"Is there pretty scenery round Truston?" asks Lilian.