More put out his arm and laid it round his daughter’s waist as she turned with him.
“Come, Mr. Torridon,” he said, “if you have no more to say, let us go and see Beatrice.”
There was a group on the lawn under one of the lime trees, two or three girls and Mr. Roper, who all rose to their feet as the three came up. More immediately sat down on the grass, putting his feet delicately together before him.
“Will, fetch this gentleman a chair. It is not fit for Master Cromwell’s friend to sit on the grass like you and me.”
Ralph threw himself down on the lawn instantly, entreating Mr. Roper not to move.
“Well, well,” said Sir Thomas, “let be. Sit down too, Will, et cubito remanete presso. Mr. Torridon understands that, I know, even if Master Cromwell’s friend does not. Why, tillie-vallie, as Mrs. More says, I have not said a word to Beatrice. Beatrice, this is Mr. Ralph Torridon, and this, Mr. Torridon, is Beatrice. Her other name is Atherton, but to me she is a feminine benediction, and nought else.”
Ralph rose swiftly and looked across at a tall slender girl that was sitting contentedly on an outlying root of the lime tree, beside of Sir Thomas, and who rose with him.
“Mr. More cannot let my name alone, Mr. Torridon,” she said tranquilly, as she drew back after the salute. “He made a play upon it the other day.”
“And have been ashamed of it ever since,” said More; “it was sacrilege with such a name. Now, I am plain Thomas, and more besides. Why did you send for me, Beatrice?”
“I have no defence,” said the girl, “save that I wanted to see you.”