‘Without the hope of reward?’
‘Yes.’
‘There may be, señorita—a few,’ answered Conyngham with a laugh, ‘but not in my country. They must all be in Spain.’
She smiled and shook her head in doubt. But it was a worn smile.
The Englishman turned away and looked through the trees. He was wondering how he could get speech with Julia alone for a moment.
‘You are admiring the garden,’ said that young lady; and this time he knew that there had in reality been that meaning in her eyes which he had imagined to be there.
‘Yes, señorita, I think it must be the most beautiful garden in the world.’
He turned as he spoke, and looked at Estella, who met his glance quietly. Her repose of manner struck him afresh. Here was a woman having that air of decision which exacts respect alike from men and women. Seen thus, with the more vivacious Julia at her side, Estella gained suddenly in moral strength and depth—suggesting a steady fire in contrast with a flickering will-o’-the-wisp blown hither and thither on every zephyr. Yet Julia Barenna would pass anywhere as a woman of will and purpose.
Julia had risen, and was moving towards the exit of the little grove in which they found themselves. Conyngham had never been seated.
‘Are the violets in bloom, Estella? I must see them,’ said the visitor. ‘We have none at home, where all is dry and parched.’