But the old lady interposed in a softened tone--"No, sir; pray don't go; pray remain. You've been walking, fishing. What a sweet day, and charming scenery near here. I know it all very well. In my poor girl's lifetime I was a great deal here. She was very accomplished--she drew beautifully--poor thing; my pretty Beatrix here is very like her. You can't remember your poor mamma? No, hardly." All this time Lady Alice was, with aristocratic ill-breeding, contemplating the features of Guy Strangways, as she might a picture, with saddened eyes. She was becoming accustomed to the apparition. It had almost ceased to frighten her; and she liked it even, as a help to memory. Five minutes later she was walking feebly up and down the plateau, in the last level beams of the genial sunset, leaning on the arm of the young man, who could not refuse this courtesy to the garrulous old lady, although contrary to his prudent resolutions--it retained him so near to Beatrix. "And, Mr. Strangways, it is not every day, you know, I can walk out; and Trixie here will sometimes bring her work into the boudoir--and if you would pay me a visit there, and read or talk a little, you can't think what a kindness you would do me." What could he do but hear and smile, and declare how happy it would make him? Although here, too, he saw danger to his wise resolutions. But have not the charities of society their claims? These were their parting words as they stood on the stone platform, under the carved armorial bearings of the Marlowes, at the hall-door; and old Lady Alice, when she reached her room, wept softer and happier tears than had wet her cheeks for many a year. CHAPTER XXVI. Some Talk of a Survey of the Green Chamber. The red sunset beam that had lighted the group we have just been following, glanced through the windows of M. Varbarriere's dressing-room, and lighted up a letter he was at that moment reading. It said-- "The woman to whom you refer is still living. We heard fully about her last year, and, we are informed, is now in the service of Lady Alice Redcliffe, of Wardlock, within easy reach of Marlowe. We found her, as we thought, reliable in her statements, though impracticable and reserved; but that is eight years since. She was, I think, some way past fifty then." M. Varbarriere looked up here, and placed the letter in his pocket, beholding his valet entering. "Come in, Jacques," exclaimed the ponderous old gentleman, in the vernacular of the valet. He entered gaily bowing and smiling. "Well, my friend," he exclaimed good-humouredly, "you look very happy, and no wonder--you, a lover of beauty, are fortunate in a house where so much is treasured." "Ah! Monsieur mocks himself of me. But there are many beautiful ladies assembled here, my faith!" "What do you think of Lady Jane Lennox?" "Oh, heavens! it is an angel!"