We were looking out across the woods to the Mere, which we could also see from Netherby. The water was crimson in the sunset, and beyond it the flats stretched on and on, dark and shadowy except where the rows of willows and alders in the distance, and some cattle on an enbankment, stood out distinct and black, like an ink etching, against the golden sky. And something in Roger's words made the sky look higher and the world wider to me than ever before. The next week, Lady Lucy's eldest son, Harry, came from London to the Hall with an acquaintance of his, Sir Launcelot Trevor. I thought Harry Davenant the most polished gentleman I had ever seen. He was the first person who ever called me Mistress Olive, and treated me with a gentle deference as if I had been a woman. I admired his manners exceedingly. His voice, though deep and strong, had something of the soft cadence of Lady Lucy's. He always saw what every one wanted before they knew it themselves. He always seemed to listen to what you said as if he had something to learn from every one. His whole soul always appeared to be in what he was saying or what you were saying, and yet there seemed to be another kind of porter-soul outside, quite independent of this inner soul, always on the watch to render any little courtesy to all around. I supposed these courtly attentions had become an instinct to him, so that he could attend to them and to other things at the same time, as easily as we can talk while we are eating or walking. He was his mother's greatest friend. Sir Walter never was this. He was always almost lover-like in his deference and attention to her, stormy and soldier-like as his usual manner was. But into her thoughts he did not seem to care to enter, any more than into her oratory. They had some portion of their worlds in common, but the largest portion, by far, apart. And the younger boys were like him, more or less. But whatever Lady Lucy might have missed in him was made up to her in her eldest son.