"Yes, I am quite well, and rested." A pause. She was apparently not inclined to talk more than she could help.
"Do you know I quite expected to see you when I dined at Brosedale the other day—how was it you did not appear?"
"What! did you expect to see me at dinner? Do you, then, think I am a much-disguised princess?"
"Not so very much disguised," he replied, rather surprised at her tone.
She raised her eyes fully to his, with a look half amused, half scornful. "You might dine many times at Brosedale without seeing me. Do you know that Sir Peter Fergusson was married before, and he has one son—a poor, crippled, often-suffering boy of thirteen, I think? Well, this boy can do very little to amuse himself; he does not care for study, but he loves pictures and drawing, so I was engaged about a year ago to be, not his governess—I am too ignorant—nor his companion—that would be a lady-in-waiting—but a souffre douleur and teacher of drawing. I live with my poor boy, who is never shown to visitors; and we are not unhappy together."
"I have heard of this son, but thought he was away; and you are always with him—very fortunate for him, but what a life for you!"
"A far better life than many women have," she replied, softly, looking away from him and speaking as if to herself.
"Still, it is an awful sacrifice!"
She laughed with real, sweet merriment. "That depends on what has been sacrificed. And you," she went on, with the odd independence of manner which, had her voice been less soft and low, her bearing less gentle, might have seemed audacious, "do you like Glenraven? Have you found many lovely bits of scenery?"
"I am charmed with the country; and, were I as fortunate as young Fergusson in a companion, I might even try my 'prentice hand at sketching."