"Sarah is very fortunate, for Peter has the same opinion of her."
"Fortunate! Lady Mary, if I were to tell you the chances that girl has had—not but what I had far rather she married Peter—though she might have done that all the same if she had never left home in her life."
"I am not so sure of that," said Peter's mother.
Lady Tintern's turn took her no further than the fountain garden, where she sank down upon a bench, and graciously requested her escort to occupy the vacant space by her side.
"I started at an unearthly hour this morning, and I am not so young as I was," she said; "but I am particularly desirous of a good night's rest, and I never can sleep with anything on my mind. So I came over here to talk business. By-the-by, I should have come over here long ago, if any one had had the sense to give me a hint that I had only to cross a muddy stream, in a flat-bottomed boat, in order to see a face like that—" She nodded towards the terrace.
John's colour rose slightly. He put the nod and the smile, and the sharp glance of the dark eyes together, and perceived that Lady Tintern had drawn certain conclusions.
"There is some expression in her face," said the old lady, musingly, "which makes me think of Marie Stuart's farewell to France. I don't know why. I have odd fancies. I believe the Queen of Scots had hazel eyes, whereas this pretty Lady Mary has the bluest eyes I ever saw—quite remarkable eyes."
"Those blue eyes," said John, smiling, "have never looked beyond this range of hills since Lady Mary's childhood."
The old lady nodded again. "Eh—a State prisoner. Yes, yes. She has that kind of look." Then she turned to John, with mingled slyness and humour, "On va changer tout cela?"
"As you have divined," he answered, laughing in spite of himself. "Though how you have divined it passes my poor powers of comprehension."