"I am not jesting," Sir John said gravely. "You have come back to the Abbey a woman. You are more beautiful than I thought you were. You have made something of a sensation. You say you have no confession to make."
"That I have no confession to make is true, and for the other items I am glad I please you."
"But you do not please me," returned Sir John. "I should have been more gratified had you made a confession. I have no son, Barbara."
She put her hand upon his arm in a quick caress, full of sympathy, knowing how sore a trouble this was to him.
"So you see my interests are centred in you," he went on after a moment's pause which served to intensify the meaning in his words. "One of those interests—indeed, the chiefest of them—is your marriage. It must be a wise marriage, Barbara, one worthy of a Lanison. Have you never thought of it at all?"
"Never, definitely."
"And yet it is time."
"Yesterday I was a child," she answered, her eyes looking towards the distant hills. A pair of grey eyes seemed to be watching her.
"You were born before your mother was your age," Sir John answered. "I was prepared to look with favour upon any man on whom your choice had fallen. It has fallen on no one, you say."
"I have said so. We must wait a little while. I am very happy as I am."