The doctor recovered himself.  “I wish it with all my heart,” he said.  He tried to smile.  “Some day, if you will, you shall tell me how you managed it.  But perhaps—­not just now.”

“Can’t you guess?” she said, opening her eyes in a wonder stronger than discretion.

How was it possible, she thought, that such a clever man should be so dull?

The doctor shook his head.  “You were always too quick for me, little Sarah,” he said.  “I am only glad, however it happened, that—­she—­is to be happy at last.”  He had no thoughts to spare for Sarah, or any other.  As she lingered he said absently, “Is that all?”

She looked at him, and was inspired to leave the remorseful and sympathetic words that rushed to her lips unsaid.

“That is all,” said Sarah, gently, “for the present.”

Then she left him alone, and took her way down to the ferry.

CHAPTER XXI

“The very last of the roses,” said Lady Mary.

She looked round the banqueting hall.  The wax candles shed a radiance upon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows of each unlighted corner.  Bowls of roses, red and white and golden, bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of the panels.

The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown into the red-hot wood-ash.  The two old sisters sat almost in the chimney corner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidences unheard.

Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and crepe, whilst Miss Georgina’s respect for her brother’s memory was made manifest in plum-coloured satin.

Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night.  Since the day of Peter’s return she had not ventured to don her favourite white.  Her gown was of velvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of an old lace scarf which veiled the bosom.  A string of pearls was twisted in her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and gracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles.

Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining to notice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces; restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.

The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown and blue ribbons.  The beautiful colour, which could face the morning sunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too high in the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made a glory of its own.

The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even Lady Mary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient of the heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air.  She envied Peter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on the terrace.

“The very last of the roses,” said Lady Mary.