She liked his frankness;
it flattered and touched her. She liked his deep rich voice, and his dark
face, with its lean strength, and almost southern colour. During his
illness he had grown a small peaked beard, and it pleased her artistic
sense, by giving him a look of Cardinal Richelieu--as that great man
stood figured in an old French print she had picked up once in a box on
the Paris quays. Moreover his friendship offered her so much fresh
knowledge of the world and life. Here, again, was comradeship. She was
lucky indeed. Harry Tatham--and now this clever, interesting man,
entering on his task. It was a great responsibility. She would not fail
either of her new friends! They knew--she had made--she would make it
quite plain, that she was not setting her cap at either. Wider insights,
fresh powers, honourable, legitimate powers, for her sex--it was these
she was after.
In all all this Lydia was perfectly sincere. But the Comic Spirit sitting
aloft took note.
They paused a moment on the edge of the plateau on which the house
stood--the ground breaking from it to the west. A group of cottages
appeared amid the woods far away.
"If all estates were like this estate!" cried Lydia, pointing to them,
"and all cottages like their cottages!"
Faversham flushed and stiffened.
"Oh! the Tathams are always perfection!"
Lydia's eyebrows lifted.
"It is a crime?"
"No--but one hears too much of it."
"Not from them!" The tone was indignant.
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