“No,” said Festing. “I know her already; that is, I've seen her picture.”
Muriel, glancing at him keenly, did not understand his look, but replied: “Helen lives with her mother and aunt, but it's hard to describe them. They are not old, but seem to date back to other times. In fact, they're rather unique nowadays. Like very dainty old china; you'd expect them to break if they were rudely jarred. You feel they ought to smell of orris and lavender.”
“Ah,” said Festing. “I was a fool to promise Charnock. I've never met people like that, and am afraid they'll get a jar to-morrow.”
“I don't think you need be afraid,” Muriel replied. “They're not really prudish or censorious, though they are fastidious.”
“And is Miss Dalton like her mother and aunt?”
“In a way. Helen has their refinement, but she's made of harder stuff. She would wear better among strains and shocks.”
Festing shook his head. “Girls like her ought to be sheltered and kept from shocks. After all, there's something to be said for Charnock's point of view. Your delicate English grace and bloom ought to be protected and not rubbed off by the rough cares of life.”
“I don't know if you're nice or not,” Muriel rejoined with a laugh. “Anyway, you don't know many English girls, and your ideas about us are old-fashioned. We are not kept in lavender now. Besides, it isn't the surface bloom that matters, and fine stuff does not wear out. It takes a keener edge and brighter polish from strenuous use. And Helen is fine stuff.”
“So I thought,” said Festing quietly, and stopped at the end of the terrace. The bleating of sheep had died away, and except for the splash of the beck a deep silence brooded over the dale. The sun had set and the landscape was steeped in soft blues and grays, into which woods and hills slowly melted.
“It's remarkably pleasant here,” he said. “Not a sign of strain and hurry; things seem to run on well-oiled wheels! Perhaps the greatest change is to feel that one has nothing to do.”