"Well, I know the redoubtable Jessamy rather well."
"We'm settled in the wood beyond Wyvelstoke Park," added Diana, "along by the stream."
"I know it," nodded his lordship, "I have killed many a fine trout along that same stream. I shall do myself the pleasure of finding you one of these days, if I may?"
"Pray do sir," said I eagerly, "you will find Jeremy Jarvis the most wonderful tinker in the world and one who writes poetry besides mending kettles and shoeing horses."
"This has been a truly memorable occasion," said his lordship, "I feel myself honoured by your confidence, it has given me a new interest in my solitary life."
"And why are you so solitary?" questioned Diana.
"Because old age is usually solitary, and because in my youth, when Love came to me, I was a coward, by reason of worldly considerations, and let it plead in vain, alas! And thus, although my friends were many in those days, my empty heart was always solitary, and now—my friends are mostly dead, and I am—a childless, lonely old man!"
The white head drooped disconsolate, the slender, delicate hands wrung each other, and then about these bowed and aged shoulders Diana clasped protecting arm and stooped soft cheek to his.
"Ah, poor old soul, don't grieve!" she murmured. "Here's Peregrine and me will be your friends and pals, if you'll have us, and if you're ever very lonely or in want, come to us—wait!" Then, opening her gipsire, and before I could prevent, into those slender fingers she thrust a bright, new guinea; for a long moment his lordship stared down at the coin while I grew alternately hot and cold. When at last he lifted his white head I saw his keen eyes dimmed with unshed tears.
"Why, child?" he murmured. "Generous girl—"