No brighter picture of English home life could be imagined.
Churchill threw down his Quarterly, and rose to offer the unexpected guest a hearty welcome, which Madge as heartily seconded.
‘This time, of course, you have come to stay with us,’ said Mr. Penwyn.
‘You are too good. No. I have put up at my old quarters at Borcel End. But I dare say I shall give you quite enough of my society. I walked over to spend an hour or two, and perhaps ask for a cup of tea from Mrs. Penwyn.’
‘You’ll stop to dinner, surely?’
‘Not this evening, tempting as such an invitation is. I promised Martin Trevanard that I would go back before dark.’
‘You and that young Martin are fast friends, it seems.’
‘Yes. He is a capital young fellow, and I am really attached to him,’ answered Maurice, somewhat absently.
He was looking at Mrs. Penwyn, surprised, nay, shocked, by the change which her beauty had suffered since he had last seen the proud handsome face, only a few months ago. There was the old brightness in her smile, the same grand carriage of the nobly formed head; but her face had aged somehow. The eyes seemed to have grown larger; the once perfect oval of the cheek had sharpened to a less lovely outline; the clear dark complexion had lost its carnation glow, and that warm golden tinge, which had reminded Maurice of one of De Musset’s Andalusian beauties, had faded to an ivory pallor.
Madge was as kind as ever, and seemed no less gay. Yet Maurice fancied there was a change even in the tone of her voice. It had lost its old glad ring.