“A worthy, honest man—not too sharp-sighted,” she said of Sir Thomas to herself. “And a good, sound-hearted woman”—of Mistress Rachel. “There is a pickie, or I mistake,” greeted Jack. “This is Margaret, is it? Clear as crystal: not deep, but clear. But this face”—as Lucrece came before her—“is deep enough. Not deep like a river, but like a snake. I could do well enough with your plain, honest sister; but I love you not, Mistress Lucrece. Enville. Your graceful ways do not captivate me. Ah! it takes a woman to know a woman. And the men, poor silly things! fancy they know us better than we do each other.”
If Philippa had spoken that last sentiment audibly, she would have won the fee-simple of Rachel Enville’s heart.
“Sir Thomas,” said Philippa, when they rose from supper, “when it may stand with your conveniency, I would fain have an half-hour’s talk with you.”
Sir Thomas was ready enough to confer with the old lady, whom he liked, and he led her courteously to his wife’s boudoir. Lady Enville sat down in her cushioned chair, and made a screen of her fan.
“Sir Thomas,” began Philippa bluntly, “I would fain wit what you and Orige mean to do with Clare? Forgive my asking; I love the child for her grandame’s sake.”
“Good Mistress, you be full welcome to ask the same. But for me, I know not how to answer, for I never took any thought thereupon. Hadst thou thought thereon, Orige?”
“I counted her most like to wed with Arthur Tremayne,” said Lady Enville carelessly.
“I ne’er thought of him,” remarked Sir Thomas.
“If it be so, good,” said Philippa. “I have looked the lad o’er, and I am satisfied with him. And now, I pray you, take one more word from an old woman, of your gentleness. What do you with Blanche?”
In answer to this question—for Philippa was well known to Sir Thomas by repute, and he was prepared to trust her thoroughly—the whole story of Don Juan came out. Philippa sat for a minute, looking thoughtfully into the fire.