The old aunt referred to her several times, and once said to Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. She reads a great deal. I like having an opinion to go by, and she chooses my books for me so much better than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many people just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but Lucilla and I like to know something about the author as well.”
She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride.
Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of manuscript concerning Leonidas of Alexandria, at the laborious compilation for which Lucilla had worked for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of which Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, is our literary critic.”
A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old lady poured it out, and was very meticulous in inquiring into Quentillian’s precise tastes as to milk and sugar.
As soon as he could, he made his farewell.
“I hope you’ll come again, now you’ve found the way here,” said Lucilla’s aunt, kindly.
Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when he left “Balmoral.”
They walked in silence for a little way and then Owen said pleadingly:
“You’ll let me take you away from that, won’t you, Lucilla? It’s an impossible life for you.”
“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just what I said before—you want to follow a generous impulse without counting the cost. My life has really nothing to do with the question.”