“You grow more beautiful every day, Angèle,” was his greeting.
The faintest tinge of colour stole into her ivory pale cheeks, and her eyes filled with a very affectionate light. There was not a single grey thread in her carefully arranged golden-brown hair, yet it was obvious that she was no longer a young woman.
“And you,” she murmured, “I listen here sometimes for your footsteps, and I look down the lane, and I can never tell whether it is you or Gregory who comes. You are a wonderful person, especially considering the life you lead,” she added, with a little grimace.
“My dear,” he said, “we are all the victims of predestination. It is such a comfortable doctrine that I have embraced it permanently. I am a Ballaston and Gregory will be one after me.”
“So far as that is concerned, Henry also is a Ballaston,” she reminded him.
“Henry,” he pointed out, “is not an elder son. It is the elder sons who inherit the full measure of the virtues and vices of our family. Henry, I admit, is a freak, God bless him!”
“So you had my relatives to dine last night,” she remarked. “Tell me what you think of my niece.”
“The most amazingly attractive young person whom I have ever met in my life,” he replied, with what was for him enthusiasm. “As a rule I find extreme youth overpowering—a mixture of shyness and precocity, you know.”
“She is certainly beautiful,” Madame murmured. “Presently I shall get used to her and like to have her near me. Just now I find youth a little depressing. Gregory has altered.”
“It is disappointment,” his father sighed. “He had a stirring adventure, though. I suppose he has told you all about it.”