And all the time Lydia's face wore a happy animation which redoubled its
charm. Faversham was clearly making a good impression upon her, was
indeed set on doing so, helped always by the look of delicacy, the traces
of suffering, which appealed to her pity. Tatham moved restlessly in his
chair, and presently he got up, and proposed to Mrs. Penfold that they
should examine the improvements in the garden.
* * * * *
When they returned, Lydia and Faversham were still talking and still
absorbed.
"Lydia, my dear," cried her mother, "I am afraid we shall be tiring Mr.
Faversham! Now you must let Lord Tatham show you the garden--that's been
made in a _week_! It's like that part in 'Monte Cristo,' where he orders
an avenue at breakfast-time, that's to be ready by dinner--don't you
remember? It's _thrilling_!"
Lydia rose obediently, and Mrs. Penfold slipped into her seat. Lydia,
strolling with Tatham along the rampart wall which crowned the sandstone
cliff, was now and then uncomfortably aware as they passed the tea-table
of the soft shower of questions that her mother was raining upon
Faversham.
"You really think, Mr. Faversham"--the tone was anxiously lowered--"the
daughter is dead?--the daughter _and_ the mother?"
"I know nothing!"
"She would be the heiress?"
"If she were alive? Morally, I suppose, not legally, unless her father
pleased."
"Oh! Mr. Faversham!--but you would never suggest--"
Lydia came to the rescue:
"Mother, really we ought to ask for the pony-carriage.
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