The poet looked at her gravely—at the sweet-lined face, and the white hair, and tired grey eyes.
"Do you know, Lady Chantrey," he said, "you always give me fresh inspiration. I—I wonder—"
But what the poet wondered was only the wonder, I suppose, of all writers of all ages, and, in any case, it was not put into words, for across the lawn came a rustle of silk and muslin, heralding visitors, and the poet became busy about tea-cups and cream.
Though physical weakness, and want of means, prevented Lady Chantrey from entertaining to any large extent, yet I doubt if any woman in the county was more really popular than this gentle hostess of Becklington Hall; for Lady Chantrey was of those who had gained the three choicest gifts of suffering—sweetness and forbearance and sympathy.
Such as Lady Chantrey never want for friends, for indeed they give, I fancy, more than they receive.
On this sunny afternoon several groups were dotted about the cool lawns of Becklington, when Tommy and Madge came tea-wards from the cave.
Lady Chantrey beckoned them to her side.
"I am so glad to see you again, Tommy," she said. "You never come to see me now. I suppose old women are poor company."