“Did you speak to me, dear?” she inquired gently. “Have I done something to vex you?”
Lady Vaughan laughed.
“No, of course you haven’t. The idea of your vexing anybody! You look irritatingly cool in this tremendous heat,—that’s all.”
“I love the sun,”—said Irene dreamily—“To me it is always the visible sign of God in the world. In London we have so little sunshine,—and, one might add, so little of God also! I was just then watching that golden blaze of light upon the sea.”
Strathlea looked at her interrogatively.
“And what does it suggest to you, Madame?” he asked—“The glory of a great fame, or the splendour of a great love?”
“Neither”—she replied tranquilly—“Simply the reflex of Heaven on Earth.”
“Love might be designated thus,” said Strathlea in a low tone.
She coloured a little, but offered no response.
“It was odd that you alone should have been told the news of poor El-Râmi’s misfortune,” said Sir Frederick, abruptly addressing her,—“None of us, not even my cousin Melthorpe, who knew him before you did, had the least idea of it.”