“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 daresay, 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.”
“I will not call it detaining me, Miss Marguerite,” said Leslie, mockingly assuming a courtly manner in accord with that of his tormentor. “The Scotch had so much intercourse with the French years ago that they gave us a little polish, and I hope we have some trace of the old politeness left.”
He smiled and bowed before passing on, and Aunt Marguerite watched him till he disappeared down the zig-zag path, her own smile remaining so fixed that it seemed to be frozen on her lip, the more so that it was a cold, cruel-looking smile, verging on the malignant as she said softly—“That will be something for you to think about, Mr Duncan Leslie; and you shall find I am not a woman to be despised.”
“It is curious,” said the object of her thoughts, as he walked slowly down the cliff path. “Surely there was never a family before whose various members were so different in their ways. 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.”