“Your own!” he interrupted.
“No, my poor sister’s. Heavens, how lovely she was! Do you remember—but who’s that?”
She pointed covertly with her fan at a girl pacing absently down the pergola with an elderly woman handsomely dressed leaning on her arm. She herself was dressed in white, with a large straw hat trimmed with blue ribbons shading her face, and carried a basket of roses in the other hand. A little black and white silken spaniel trotted after her.
She was looking gravely down on the path as she walked, lost in thought, and evidently knew nothing of who sat among the roses. The pair stopped a little way off and there she stood in perfect quiet, looking far away to the sea. A lovely tranquillity was on her face and the gently relaxed figure. It was as though some vaguely pleasant thought possessed her, all sunshine and roses.
“That girl,” said the Duchess softly, lest she should be overheard, “is the greatest beauty I have seen since my sister died. I should say a perfect beauty if I did not remember Maria. I can think no one else equals her. What is your judgment?”
“You must not ask my judgment here!” he whispered, and as Emma and her mother moved towards them again in passing, he rose and bowed with the most punctilious courtesy, Emma flushing brightly as they curtseyed in answer and passed on. She could guess very well who the noble-looking woman must be who sat so much at ease with Sir William. She could not hurry her mother, however, and so they went slowly out of sight.
“Who is she?” the Duchess demanded.
He looked her straight in the face.
“As I remember you, madam, your Grace was bound by no conventions. You were not held by other people’s approvals and disapprovals. You judged for yourself and imposed your own will on others. If so great a lady cannot, who can? That was your attitude. Is it so still?”
“Certainly, so far as I know. Who is she? An unmentionable?”