Then his mother came up.
“Run, Jim, and hold my horse. Mistress Beatrice, may I have a word with you?”
The two turned and walked down to the end of the terrace again.
“It is this,” said Mary, looking at the other from under her plumed hat, with her skirt gathered up with her whip in her gloved hand. “I wished to tell you about my mother. I have not dared till now. I have never seen her so stirred in my life, as she is now. I—I think she will do anything you wish in time. It is useless to feign that we do not understand one another—anything you wish—come back to her Faith perhaps; treat my father better. She—she loves you, I think; and yet dare not—”
“On Ralph’s account,” put in Beatrice serenely.
“Yes; how did you know? It is on Ralph’s account. She cannot forgive that. Can you say anything to her, do you think? Anything to explain? You understand—”
“I understand.”
“I do not know how I dare say all this,” went on Mary blushing furiously, “but I must thank you too for what you have done for my sister. It is wonderful. I could have done nothing.”
“My dear,” said Beatrice. “I love your sister. There is no need for thanks.”
A loud voice hailed them.