“Really? I should have thought that you could not fail to see that. It is almost the only trace of our former greatness that my misguided brother—”
“Were you alluding to Mr Luke Vine?”
“No, no, no, no! To my brother, George des Vignes. Surely, Mr Leslie, you must have noted our arms upon the dining-room windows.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course; and the motto, Roy et Foy.”
“Exactly,” said Aunt Marguerite, smiling. “I thought it must have caught your eye.” Something else was catching Duncan Leslie’s eye just then—the last flutter of the scarf Louise wore before it disappeared round the foot of the cliff.
“I shall bear it, I dare say, and with fortitude, Mr Leslie, for it will be a grand position that she will take. The De Lignys are a family almost as old as our own; and fate might arrange for me to visit them and make a long stay. She’s a sweet girl, is she not, Mr Leslie?”
“Miss Vine? Yes; you must be very proud of her,” said the young man, without moving a muscle.
“We are; we are indeed, Mr Leslie; but I am afraid I am detaining you.”
“It is curious,” said Leslie, as he walked slowly down the cliff-path. “De Ligny, De Ligny? Who is De Ligny? Well,” he added with a sigh, “I ought to thank Heaven that the name is not Pradelle.”