"Lucy Pryor," she assented. She bowed and turned away.
Lord Otford was stunned. "No—no," he stammered. "Stop!—this alters the case entirely!"
She turned on him with raised eyebrows. "How?"
He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment. All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again, deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart—his only sweetheart—the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I—I don't know. I am stunned!—After all these years!"
She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness.
"Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother—and a mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic countenance, my lord!"
Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the less hearty curse.
Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she would not let him come to life again.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss! Puss! Puss!"
But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish! Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely stalked that fish. Not before.