"Give me your arm," she said to Archdale, "and let us take a turn out here. We don't want you, Temple; we want to talk."
Sir Temple, serenely sure of hearing, before he slept, the purport of any conversation that his wife might have had, took up a book which he had brought with him. He was an excellent traveler in regard to one kind of luggage; the same book lasted him a good while.
Lady Dacre moved off with Stephen. They went out of the house and down the walk. She commented on the neglected appearance of things until Stephen asked her if weeds were peculiar to the American soil. In answer she struck him lightly with her fan and walked on laughing. But when they reached the end of the garden, she turned upon him suddenly.
"Now tell me," she said.
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me what, indeed! What a speech for a lover, a young husband. Has the light of your honeymoon faded so quickly? Mine has not yet. Tell me about her, of course, your charming bride."
Stephen came to a dead halt, and stood looking into the smiling eyes gazing up into his.
"Lady Dacre," he said, "the Mistress Archdale you will find at Seascape is my mother." Then he gave the history of his intended marriage, and of that other marriage which might prove real. His listener was more moved than she liked to show.
"It will all be right," she said tearfully. "But it is dreadful for you, and for the young ladies, both of them."
"Yes," he answered, "for both of them."