Sir John lifted his shoulders a little as though the point were too trivial to discuss, and he tried to remember what coloured eyes young Sydney Fellowes had.
"I am not sure whether Lord Rosmore's eyes are grey or not; I rather think they are," he said slowly.
"Lord Rosmore!"
Laughter sounded along the terrace, and several people came towards them, Lord Rosmore and Sydney Fellowes amongst them.
"If his eyes are grey, they are not the shade I like," said Barbara decidedly, and as Sir John rose she turned and walked along the terrace in the opposite direction. If her uncle were annoyed at her action he did not show it as he went to meet his guests.
"I was taking a quiet half-hour to discuss matters with the châtelaine of the Abbey," he said. "She will worry over small details more than is needful."
"Perhaps if I go and read her some new verses it will soothe her," said
Fellowes.
"Better wait a more convenient season, unless you would have some of the servants for your audience," laughed Sir John, as he turned to walk with Rosmore. "You would find her engaged with them, and domesticities go ill with poetry."
"Plagued ill with the poetry Fellowes writes," said Branksome; "is that not true, Mistress Dearmer?"
"I am no judge, since Mr. Fellowes has never made verses for me," answered the lady.