They drank their tea in the great hall, and afterwards, linking her arm familiarly in Lucilla's, “Dearest Lady Dor,” she pronounced, in the accents of one pleading for a grace, “I am so anxious to see your beautiful garden! You will show it to me? Yes? My son has told me so much about it.”
And when she and Lucilla, under their sunshades, were alone in the garden-paths, “The outlook is magnificent,” she vowed, with enthusiasm. “You have Florence at your feet. Superb. Oh, the lovely roses! I might pick one—a little one? Yes? Ah, so kind. I wanted to ask about your charming little friend, that nice Miss Adgate.”
“Oh?” said Lucilla, in a tone of some remoteness.
But the Duchess did not appear to notice it. “Yes,” she blithely pursued. “You don't mind? My son has told me so much about her. She is an American, I think?”
“Yes,” said Lucilla.
The Duchess's eyes glowed with admiration.
“Your ilex trees are wonderful—I have never seen grander ones. I am really envious. She has nice manners, and is distinguished-looking as well as pretty. I believe she is also—how do you say in English—très bien dotée?”
“She has about thirty thousand a year, I believe,” said Lucilla.
The Duchess stood still and all but gasped. “Thirty thousand pounds? Pounds sterling?” Then she resumed her walk. “But that is princely. That is nearly a million francs.”
“It is a decent income,” Lucilla admitted.