“Aha!” she murmured eloquently, and the depths of comprehension in her brooding gaze left Ludovic utterly defeated. Then, after a moment’s silence, obviously consecrated by Mrs. Tregaskis to her complete and all-embracing understanding of Ludovic Argent, she gravitated skilfully towards a brighter outlook.
“What a joy that little gift of writing is, though! I always say it’s like the quality of mercy, twice blessed—it blesses him that gives and him that takes——”
“My dear Bertie!” said Lady Argent with her soft laugh, and under a vague impression that Bertie was being epigrammatic and slightly daring with a passage from the Scriptures.
“Well, it’s very true,” laughed Mrs. Tregaskis. “I’m sure the readers of ‘Cameron’s’ and the ‘Age of Literature’ often bless your son’s contributions, and as to ‘him that gives,’ I know it really is the greatest joy to me sometimes, when the real work of the day is done, to feel I can let myself sit down for a few minutes and turn out half a dozen little French couplets or some fanciful piece of nonsense about children and fairies—you know the sort of thing. It does seem to rest one so.”
“To rest one!” echoed Lady Argent, with at least three notes of admiration in her voice.
“Children, do you realize what a wonderful person your—your guardian is? She’ll tell you all sorts of stories about fairies and things. I know you’re perfectly marvellous with children, Bertie,” she added in a most audible aside.
“Little people generally like my long yarns about the Cornish pixies,” admitted Mrs. Tregaskis. “Have you ever seen a pixie, Frances?”
“No,” said Frances coldly.
“Ah, they don’t grow in this part of the world. But there are wonderful things in Cornwall, as you’ll find out when you live there.”
“When do you go?” asked Ludovic of Rosamund.