Tea came out, and, at Faversham’s invitation, Lydia presided.  The talk between her and Faversham flowed on, in spite of the girl’s pretty efforts to make it general, to bring Tatham into it.  He himself defeated her.  He wanted to listen; so did Mrs. Penfold, who sat in open-mouthed wonder at Lydia’s cleverness; while Tatham was presently conscious of a strong discomfort, a jealous discomfort, which spoilt for him this nearness to Lydia, and the thrill stirred in him by her movements and tones, her soft laugh, her white neck, her eyes....

Here, between these two people, Faversham and Lydia, who had only seen each other for some ten minutes in their lives before, there seemed to have arisen, at once, an understanding, a freemasonry, such as he himself had never reached in all his meetings with Lydia Penfold.

How had it come about?  They talked of people, struggling people, to whom art was life, though also livelihood; of men and women, for whom nothing else counted, beside the fascination and the torment of their work; Lydia speaking from within, as a humble yet devout member of the band; Faversham, as the keen spectator and amateur—­not an artist, but the frequenter of artists.

And all the time Lydia’s face wore a happy animation which redoubled its charm.  Faversham was clearly making a good impression upon her, was indeed set on doing so, helped always by the look of delicacy, the traces of suffering, which appealed to her pity.  Tatham moved restlessly in his chair, and presently he got up, and proposed to Mrs. Penfold that they should examine the improvements in the garden.

* * * * *

When they returned, Lydia and Faversham were still talking and still absorbed.

“Lydia, my dear,” cried her mother, “I am afraid we shall be tiring Mr. Faversham!  Now you must let Lord Tatham show you the garden—­that’s been made in a week!  It’s like that part in ‘Monte Cristo,’ where he orders an avenue at breakfast-time, that’s to be ready by dinner—­don’t you remember?  It’s thrilling!”

Lydia rose obediently, and Mrs. Penfold slipped into her seat.  Lydia, strolling with Tatham along the rampart wall which crowned the sandstone cliff, was now and then uncomfortably aware as they passed the tea-table of the soft shower of questions that her mother was raining upon Faversham.

“You really think, Mr. Faversham”—­the tone was anxiously lowered—­“the daughter is dead?—­the daughter and the mother?”

“I know nothing!”

“She would be the heiress?”

“If she were alive?  Morally, I suppose, not legally, unless her father pleased.”

“Oh!  Mr. Faversham!—­but you would never suggest—­”

Lydia came to the rescue: 

“Mother, really we ought to ask for the pony-carriage.”

Faversham protested, but Lydia was firm, and the hand-bell beside him was rung.  Mrs. Penfold flushed.  She quite understood that Lydia thought it unseemly to be putting a guest through a string of questions about the private affairs of his host; but the inveterate gossip in her whimpered.