Lord Lambeth had presently a chance to test the truth of this last proposition; for, the company rising in compliance with a suggestion from their hostess that they should walk down to the rocks and look at the sea, the young Englishman again found himself, as they strolled across the grass, in proximity to Mrs. Westgate’s sister. Though Miss Alden was but a girl of twenty she appeared conscious of the weight of expectation—unless she quite wantonly took on duties she might have let alone; and this was perhaps the more to be noticed as she seemed by habit rather grave and backward, perhaps even proud, with little of the other’s free fraternising. She might have been thought too deadly thin, not to say also too deadly pale; but while she moved over the grass, her arms hanging at her sides, and, seriously or absently, forgot expectations, though again brightly to remember them and to look at the summer sea, as if that was what she really cared for, her companion judged her at least as pretty as Mrs. Westgate and reflected that if this was the Boston style, “the quiet Boston,” it would do very well. He could fancy her very clever, highly educated and all the rest of it; but clearly also there were ways in which she could spare a fellow—could ease him; she wouldn’t keep him so long on the stretch at once. For all her cleverness, moreover, he felt she had to think a little what to say; she didn’t say the first thing that came into her head: he had come from a different part of the world, from a different society, and she was trying to adapt her conversation. The others were scattered about the rocks; Mrs. Westgate had charge of Percy Beaumont.
“Very jolly place for this sort of thing,” Lord Lambeth said. “It must do beautifully to sit.”
“It does indeed; there are cosy nooks and there are breezy ones, which I often try—as if they had been made on purpose.”
“Ah I suppose you’ve had a lot made,” he fell in.
She seemed to wonder. “Oh no, we’ve had nothing made. It’s all pure nature.”
“I should think you’d have a few little benches—rustic seats and that sort of thing. It might really be so jolly to ‘develop’ the place,” he suggested.
It made her thoughtful—even a little rueful. “I’m afraid we haven’t so many of those things as you.”
“Ah well, if you go in for pure nature, as you were saying, there’s nothing like that. Nature, over here, must be awfully grand.” And Lord Lambeth looked about him.
The little coast-line that contributed to the view melted away, but it too much lacked presence and character—a fact Miss Alden appeared to rise to a perception of. “I’m afraid it seems to you very rough. It’s not like the coast-scenery in Kingsley’s novels.”
He wouldn’t let her, however, undervalue it. “Ah, the novels always overdo everything, you know. You mustn’t go by the novels.”