"You were born before your mother was your age," Sir John answered. "I was prepared to look with favour upon any man on whom your choice had fallen. It has fallen on no one, you say." "I have said so. We must wait a little while. I am very happy as I am." "I have been thinking for you," said her uncle. "You mean--Surely you don't want me to marry Judge Marriott?" "No, Barbara," and he smiled. "I am too young myself yet to care for the judge as a nephew." "Ah! We are talking absurdly, aren't we?" she said, and although she laughed she still looked towards the distant hills. "Of course, I could never marry a man I didn't love, and to have a man chosen for you would naturally prevent your loving him, wouldn't it?" "To advise is not to force, Barbara." "Who is the man you have thought of?" she asked. "You cannot guess?" "Has he grey eyes and a low, strong voice and--" "Grey eyes!" said Sir John, glancing at her sharply. "Grey eyes--yes." She had spoken dreamily, only half conscious that she had put thoughts into words. Now she laughed and went on gaily, "I have always thought I should like to marry a man with grey eyes. Girls get fancies like that sometimes. Foolish, isn't it?" Sir John lifted his shoulders a little as though the point were too trivial to discuss, and he tried to remember what coloured eyes young Sydney Fellowes had. "I am not sure whether Lord Rosmore's eyes are grey or not; I rather think they are," he said slowly. "Lord Rosmore!" Laughter sounded along the terrace, and several people came towards them, Lord Rosmore and Sydney Fellowes amongst them. "If his eyes are grey, they are not the shade I like," said Barbara decidedly, and as Sir John rose she turned and walked along the terrace in the opposite direction. If her uncle were annoyed at her action he did not show it as he went to meet his guests. "I was taking a quiet half-hour to discuss matters with the chatelaine of the Abbey," he said. "She will worry over small details more than is needful." "Perhaps if I go and read her some new verses it will soothe her," said Fellowes. "Better wait a more convenient season, unless you would have some of the servants for your audience," laughed Sir John, as he turned to walk with Rosmore. "You would find her engaged with them, and domesticities go ill with poetry." "Plagued ill with the poetry Fellowes writes," said Branksome; "is that not true, Mistress Dearmer?" "I am no judge, since Mr. Fellowes has never made verses for me," answered the lady. "So facile a poet may remedy that on the instant," said Branksome. "Come, Master Rhymster, there's a kiss from the reddest lips I know waiting as payment for a stanza." "They are kisses which are not at your disposal," answered the lady, but she looked at Fellowes. "Gad! I believe you may have the kiss without the trouble of earning it, Fellowes," laughed Branksome. "I can go bail for the goods."