Marcus remembered more than he wanted her to remember. Did she remember that he had told her she was beautiful? It was a thing, he feared, no plain woman would be likely to forget.
Mrs. Scott sat down, arranged the heather round her, dug the heels of her square-toed brogues into its roots, and began:
“Now tell me about her! That night she seemed imprisoned sunshine—is she in love?”
Marcus looked at her honest little brogues; then at her clear eyes, but even they could not reassure him. “D’you know her aunt, on the other side?” This to make sure.
Mrs. Scott said she did not. “On the other side? Which side are you? Her mother’s, of course, how stupid I am! Is the aunt very charming?”
Marcus said he hardly knew her, and felt this restraint on his part to be magnanimous.
Mrs. Scott smiled. “It’s so nice not to have to know relations on the other side, isn’t it? Sometimes they expect to be kissed—oh, I mean, women expect women relations on the other side—”
Marcus hastened to say he quite understood.
Mrs. Scott went on. “I was so sorry to miss your niece when I called. You can imagine how busy one is when one first comes back here. There are all the dear old people to see. I admired your niece so much that night—I was homesick for the breeze on the moor—for the views of hills in the distance—for—well, just for this dear country of mine and your niece seemed to open the door to its soft west wind.”
Marcus was very happy.