"Ah, that is the crown of things, Miss Vincent—life! Dead loveliness is nothing in comparison!"
"No," said Suzette. "And what a blessing that life is beautiful in itself. One can love ugly people; one may adore an ugly dog; but who ever cared for an ugly chair, or could become attached to an ugly house?"
"Not knowingly; but I have known people fondly attached to the most hideously furnished rooms. And oh, how humiliating it is for middle-aged people like my mother to be obliged to admit that the things we think hideous were accounted beautiful when they were young!"
This easy, trivial talk was the growth of more than one luncheon, and a good many tea-drinkings, in the music-room or in the gardens of Discombe. Mrs. Wornock had opened her heart and her house to Suzette as she had never before done to any young lady in the neighbourhood, and Suzette warmly reciprocated the kindness of the recluse. She ran in at the Manor House almost as unceremoniously as she ran in at the Grove. It was understood by the servants that their mistress was always at home to Miss Vincent. And as Allan had previously been made free of the Manor House, it was only natural that he and Suzette should meet very often under Mrs. Wornock's mild chaperonage.
Mrs. Mornington knew of these meetings, and, indeed, often dropped in while the young people were there, coming to take Suzette home in her pony-carriage, or to walk with her through the lanes. She showed no sign of disapproval; yet, as a woman of the world, it may have occurred to her that, since Mrs. Wornock was so fond of Suzette, it might be wise for Suzette to refrain from attaching herself to Allan Carew, while a superior parti remained in the background in the person of Mrs. Wornock's only son.
Happily for Allan, Mrs. Mornington, although essentially mundane, was not a schemer. She had made up her mind that Allan was a good deal better than the average young man, and that Beechhurst was quite good enough for her niece, whose present means and expectations were of a very modest order. There had been no mock humility in Mrs. Mornington's statement of facts when she told Allan that her brother's income, from all sources, was just big enough to enable him to live respectably at Marsh House.
The foliage was beginning to show gleams of gold and red amidst the sombre green of late summer; the hounds were beginning to meet at seven o'clock in the crisper, clearer mornings of September; and Allan Carew was beginning to feel himself the bond-slave of a young lady about whose sentiments towards himself he was still entirely in the dark.
Did she care for him much, a little, not at all? Allan Carew was continually asking himself those questions, and there was no oracle to answer him; no oracle even in his inner consciousness, which told him nothing of Suzette's feelings. He knew that he loved her; but he could recall no word or look of hers which could assure him that she returned his love. It was certain that she liked him, and that his society was pleasant to her.
They had an infinite series of ideas in common—they thought alike upon most subjects; and she seemed no more to weary of his society than he of hers—yet there were times when he thought he might have been nearer winning her love had she liked him less. Her friendship seemed too frank ever to ripen into love. He would have liked to see her start and blush at his coming. She did neither; but received him with her airiest grace, and had always her laughter ready for his poor jokes, her intellect on the alert for his serious speech about books or men. She was the most delightful companion he had ever known; but a sister could not have been more at her ease with him.