As a rule, Gartney was not to be daunted by any woman, but there was something about Alizon Errington that made him afraid to talk in his usual cynical vein. Standing a short distance away, with the child in her arms and the golden glory of the sunshine behind her, this young mother looked like the realisation of the Madonna. So pure, so calm, so lovely, with the look of motherhood in her eyes that he involuntarily turned away his head, as though he was not worthy to profane such purity even by a glance.
"You talk above my head," he said at length, rising to his feet, "it is the language of an ideal world, not to be realized in this matter-of-fact century. But if you will forgive me, Lady Errington----"
"Why not call me Alizon?" she said cordially. "We are cousins, you know, and titles are so formal--Eustace."
"It's very kind of you to grant me such permission," replied Gartney frankly, taking the hand she held out to him. "Goodbye--Alizon."
"Not goodbye, but au revoir."
"May I come over again?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course. I am always glad to see you, besides Sammy loves his kind friend who plays with him."
"And you?"
Their eyes met, a wave of crimson passed over her face, and with an air of displeasure, she turned away coldly, without answering his question.
"Goodbye, Mr. Gartney."