“Did I not? I thought I used to tell you so much about my past life.”
“So you did; but I never heard that name.”
“You knew Arthur was a Pendrill.”
“Indeed I did not. He was always Arthur to you. I wonder I never asked his surname; but somehow I never did. I had a vague idea that some such people as these Pendrills existed; but I never heard you name them.”
“Perhaps you heard, and forgot it?” suggested Monica tentatively.
“That I am sure I never did,” was the very emphatic answer.
Beatrice was delighted with her morning’s ride. It was a beautiful autumn day, and everything was looking its best. The sea flashed and sparkled in the sunlight; the sky was clear and soft above them, the horses, delighted to feel the soft turf beneath their feet, pranced and curvetted and galloped, with that easy elastic motion that is so peculiarly exhilarating.
The girl herself looked peculiarly and vividly beautiful, and Monica was not surprised at the affectionate interest Mrs. Pendrill evinced in her from the first moment of introduction.
But she was a little surprised at the peculiar sweetness of Beatrice’s demeanour towards the old lady. Whilst retaining all her arch brightness and vivacity, the girl managed to infuse into her manner, her voice, and her words something gentle and deferential and winning that was inexplicably fascinating; all the more so from its evident unconscious sincerity.