CHAPTER XXVI.
Does this sort of thing happen often?’ said Mr. Courtenay, leading Kate away round the further side of the garden, much to the annoyance of the croquet players. The little kitchen-garden lay on the other side of the house, out of sight even of the pretty lawn. He was determined to have her entirely to himself.
‘What sort of thing, Uncle Courtenay?’
Mr. Courtenay indicated with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder the company they had just left.
‘Oh! the croquet,’ said Kate, cheerfully. ‘No, not often here—more usually it is at the Rectory, or one of the other neighbours. Our lawn is so small; but sometimes, you know, we must take our turn.’
‘Oh! you must take your turn, must you?’ he said. ‘Are all these people your Rectors, or neighbours, I should like to know?’
‘There are more Eldridges than anything else,’ said Kate. ‘There are so many of them—and then all their cousins.’
‘Ah! I thought there must be cousins,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Do you know you have grown quite a young woman, Kate?’
‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, I know; and I hope I give you satisfaction,’ she said, laughing, and making him a little curtsey.
How changed she was! Her eyes, which were always so bright; had warmed and deepened. She was beautiful in her first bloom, with the blush of eighteen coming and going on her cheeks, and the fresh innocence of her look not yet harmed by any knowledge of the world. She was eighteen, and yet she was younger as well as older than she had been at fifteen, fresher as well as more developed. The old man of the world was puzzled, and did not make it out.