Sir John walked in serene and silent contemplation of earth and heaven until his companion, as though awed by the all-pervading stillness, drew a little nearer and spoke in hushed voice:
“’Tis dreadful solitary, sir!”
“It is, child,” he answered, his gaze still wandering; “but mine is a nature that craves solitude and, at times, I am possessed of a very passion for silence.”
“Is this why your honour went and lived in Paris?” she questioned softly.
Sir John’s wandering gaze fixed itself rather hastily upon the speaker, but her face was hidden in enveloping hood.
“One can find solitude anywhere, Rose,” he retorted.
“Can one, sir?”
“To be sure, child! ’Mid the busiest throng, the gayest crowd, one’s soul may sit immune, abstracted, in solitary communion with the Infinite.”
“Aye, but—can souls sit, your honour?” she questioned.
Once again Sir John’s roaming gaze focused itself upon his companion, and when he spoke his voice sounded a trifle pettish.