“Do they invite this man?”
“No. He probably would not go to their houses if they did. And he went away soon after he came into the title.”
“Is the place beautiful?”
“There is a fine deer park, and the gardens were wonderful a long time ago. The house is worth looking at—outside.”
“I will go and look at it,” said Betty.
“The carriage is out of order. There is only Ughtred's cart.”
“I am a good walker,” said Betty.
“Are you? It would be twelve miles—there and back. When I was in New York people didn't walk much, particularly girls.”
“They do now,” Betty answered. “They have learned to do it in England. They live out of doors and play games. They have grown athletic and tall.”
As they talked the nightingales sang, sometimes near, sometimes in the distance, and scents of dewy grass and leaves and earth were wafted towards them. Sometimes they strolled up and down the terrace, sometimes they paused and leaned against the stone balustrade. Betty allowed Rosy to talk as she chose. She herself asked no obviously leading questions and passed over trying moments with lightness. Her desire was to place herself in a position where she might hear the things which would aid her to draw conclusions. Lady Anstruthers gradually grew less nervous and afraid of her subjects. In the wonder of the luxury of talking to someone who listened with sympathy, she once or twice almost forgot herself and made revelations she had not intended to make. She had often the manner of a person who was afraid of being overheard; sometimes, even when she was making speeches quite simple in themselves, her voice dropped and she glanced furtively aside as if there were chances that something she dreaded might step out of the shadow.