Mrs Luttrell held his hand still, and laughed gently.
“Little bits of flattery for a very foolish old woman, my dear.”
“Flattery! when I had such sore throats I could hardly speak, and yet had to preach! Not much flattery, eh, doctor?”
“Flattery! No, no,” said the doctor, dreamily.
He glanced at Mrs Luttrell, then at Bayle, who went on chatting pleasantly about the garden, and then checked him suddenly.
“No one can hear us, Bayle. We want to talk to you—my wife and I.”
“Certainly,” said Bayle; and his tone and manner changed. “Is it anything I can do for you?”
“Wait a moment—let me think,” said the doctor sadly. “Here, let’s go and sit down under the yew hedge.”
Bayle drew Mrs Luttrell’s hand through his arm, and patted it gently, as she looked up tenderly in his face, a tenderness mingled with pride, as if she had part and parcel in the sturdy, manly Englishman who led her to the pleasant old rustic seat in a nook of the great, green, closely-clipped wall, with its glorious prospect away over the fair country side.
“I do love this old spot!” said Bayle, enthusiastically, for a glance at the doctor showed that he was nervous and hesitating, and he thought it well to give him time. “Mrs Luttrell, it is one of my sins that I cannot master envy. I always long for this old place and garden.”