He talked well and fluently; admired Lady Waterville's flowers, and even deigned to praise my humble buttercups. I told him that I had bought them of a little girl in the street, just because they reminded me of my old home; and then he asked me if I had not lately written some verses about the country.
My cheeks grew hot again. Lady Waterville looked with an amused glance from William Greystock's face to mine.
"I did not know that Miss Coverdale ever wrote poetry," she said to him. "Pray, how did you find it out?"
"Through Ronald," he replied, with one of his peculiar smiles. "I went into his room last night and found him as usual with his beloved guitar. He was setting some lines to music; I asked who had written them, and he told me."
"Does he always tell you everything?" I inquired, trying to speak playfully, and succeeding very badly.
"Yes," was the quiet answer.
"He has inherited his love of the guitar from his Aunt Inez," said Lady Waterville, not looking at me. "She had quite an unreasonable fondness for her guitar, poor woman! I used to see her sometimes when she was first married to Colonel Greystock, and I always thought her a most extraordinary person. Ronald's mother, her own sister, was not like her in the least."
"I have often looked at those two portraits in the dining-room," said I. "Mrs. Hepburne was not nearly as handsome as her sister, but I like her face better."
"Ronald is exactly like his aunt," Mr. Greystock remarked.
"As I was saying," went on Lady Waterville, "I always thought Inez a most extraordinary person. She expected too much happiness and never got any at all. Poor thing! She was a disappointed woman from beginning to end. Any one with a genius for scribbling might make a novel out of her history."