“Thank you, Mother, but I am not hungry yet,” said Philippa.
“You ought to be. You had better eat,” was the quiet answer.
And quiet as the voice was, it had a tone of authority which Philippa involuntarily and unconsciously obeyed. And while she ate, her hostess in her turn became the questioner.
“Are you a knight’s wife?”
“I am the wife of Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall,” said Philippa. “My lord is away in Gascony, in the train of the Earl of Arundel, who accompanies the Duke of Lancaster, at present Governor of those parts. While he is absent, I hope to be able to make my salvation in retreat, and to quiet my conscience.”
The Grey Lady made no reply. Philippa almost expected her to ask if her conscience were quiet, or how much of her salvation she had made. Guy of Ashridge, she thought, would have preached a sermon on that text. But no answer came from the veiled figure, only her head drooped upon her hand as if she were tired.
“Now I am wearying you,” said Philippa reproachfully. “I ought to have gone when I first thought thereof.”
“No,” said the Grey Lady.
Her voice, if possible, was even softer than before, but Philippa could not avoid detecting in it a cadence of pain so intense that she began to wonder if she were ill, or what portion of her speech could possibly have caused it.
“Are you ill, Mother?” she asked compassionately.