"All the questions I shall ask will be mental ones, which you will answer, whether you like it or not," he said. "I find those replies, unconsciously given, so much more satisfying than any others. Little mother, you look tired; lie down here. Perhaps Miss Ballinger will continue her quarter-deck walk with me."
He tucked up the "little mother" on a deck-chair, with a plaid round her legs; then turned, and resumed his walk with Miss Ballinger. She began at once:
"What a charming face Mrs. Barham has! She reminds me of Scheffer's picture of the mother of St. Augustine—only younger."
"Yes. It is a pity I am not more like him. The only point of resemblance that I can recall is, that whenever I pray to be made good, I add, like Augustine—'but not to-day, O Lord!'"
She turned her bright, penetrating glance full upon him, half laughing, half serious.
"Are you one of the men who are anxious to be thought very wicked? I should not have expected that. But there I am, questioning again! Well, never mind. Strong characters are rarely saints in youth, I suppose; though I don't know why they shouldn't be, if they are only strong enough."
"Perhaps I am not strong at all."
"Yes, you are. Your mouth and chin told me that, before you spoke."
"You are a physiognomist. How about the eyes? Do you attach any importance to them?—those 'windows of the soul?'"
"He does not expect me to say that his windows are luminous ones, magnificently draped, does he? If he does, he shall be disappointed," thought Grace. What she said was: