"I think you are wrong, dear. After all, you must remember that you are a complete stranger to her."
"That has been her mother's fault. Margharita never exactly blamed me for what I did at Palermo, but she always felt bitterly for her brother, and she could not forget that it was my hand which had sent him to prison. It was very unreasonable of her, but, after all, one can understand her feeling. Still, this girl of hers can have no such feeling toward me."
"Of course not; but, none the less, as I said before, you are a complete stranger to her," Lord St. Maurice answered. "Her parentage is just the sort to have given her those independent ideas, and I'm inclined to think that she is quite right."
Lady St. Maurice sighed.
"I would have been only too happy to have welcomed her as a daughter," she said. "I dare say you are right, Geoff. I shall write and tell her to come."
She walked away to the window, looking across the pine-bound cliffs to the sea. Time had dealt with her very leniently, as indeed he needs must with those whose life is like one long summer's day. Her brow was still smooth, and her hair, rich and soft as ever, had not a single tinge of gray. Her figure, too, was perfect; the lithe gracefulness of youth had only ripened into the majesty of dignified womanhood. There was not a society paper which did not sometimes allude to her as "the beautiful Lady St. Maurice."
But just at that moment her eyes were sad, and her face was troubled. Her husband, looking up suddenly, saw it, and throwing down his paper, walked across the room to her side.
"Adrienne, what is it, little woman?" he asked fondly.
"I was thinking of poor Leonardo," she answered. "Geoffrey, it is very foolish to let it trouble me, is it not?"
"Very, darling. Why should it?"