Mr. Tallant handed Mr. Hammerton his cigar-case.
“May I offer one to my friend?” said Mr. Hammerton, looking round for Mr. Phillips, who had strolled into the drawing-room.
“By all means. Mr. Phillips, will you do me the pleasure of joining us in a cigar?” said Mr. Tallant, raising his voice; at which the artist returned to the library.
Just then Phœbe and Amy entered, and Mr. Hammerton expressed great pleasure at seeing Miss Somerton.
Mr. Richard Tallant thought he saw in Amy’s face, as she returned Mr. Hammerton’s graceful salutation, an expression of love and admiration; but this might have originated out of what he had heard in the summer-house, and he felt annoyed in spite of himself, and without really knowing why.
“Shall we have our smoke?” he said, a little impatiently. “The ladies will excuse us, and we can walk outside on the grass.”
“Presently, Mr. Tallant,” said the young nobleman, entering into a conversation with Miss Tallant and Amy about a score of trifling things.
“Don’t let us detain you, pray,” said Miss Tallant; and by-and-by Mr. Tallant and Mr. Hammerton, with Mr. Phillips between them, sauntered leisurely up and down the lawn, whilst Phœbe returned to the new books.
Amy sat down near her, with “In Memoriam” in her hand. The Laureate’s sublime thoughts had long since been in her heart, but she was accustomed to dwell upon this greatest of all his great works when her feelings were more than usually agitated; and this morning sadness and gladness were so commingled that she was almost beside herself with a sense of doubt and fear and sorrow, and of trembling joy and presentiments of dread and danger.
“He past; a soul of nobler tone: