Notwithstanding the charming letter she had received from Mrs. Durward, begging her to remain at Barrow Court exactly as long as it suited her, now that the moment had come which would actually install the new mistress of the Court, she began to feel as though her continued presence there might be regarded rather in the light of an intrusion.

Mrs. Durward’s letter might very well have been dictated only by a certain superficial politeness, or, even, solely at the instance of her husband, and it was conceivable that the writer would be none too pleased that her invitation had been so literally interpreted.

In the course of a few seconds of time Sara contrived to work herself up into a condition bordering upon panic.  And then a very low contralto voice, indescribably sweet, and with an audacious ripple of laughter running through it, swept all her scruples into the rubbish heap.  There was no doubting the sincerity of the speaker.

“It was so nice of you not to run away, Miss Tennant.”  As she spoke, Mrs. Durward shook hands cordially.  “Poor Geoffrey couldn’t help being the heir, you know, and if you’d refused to stay, he’d have felt just like the villain in a cinema film.  You’ve saved us from becoming the crawling, self-reproachful wretches.”  Then she turned and beckoned to her son.  “This is Tim,” she said simply, but the quality of her voice was very much as though she had announced:  “This is the sun, and moon, and stars.”

As mother and son stood side by side, Sara’s first impression was that she had never seen two more beautiful people.  They were both tall, and a kind of radiance seemed to envelope them—­a glory imparted by the sheer force of perfect symmetry and health—­and, in the case of the former of the two, there was an added charm in a certain little air of stateliness and distinction which characterized her movements.

Patrick’s reminiscent comment on Elisabeth Durward recalled itself to Sara’s mind:  “I think she was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,” and she recognized that almost any one might have truthfully subscribed to the same opinion.

Mrs. Durward must have been at least forty years of age—­arguing from the presence of the six foot of young manhood whom she called son—­but her appearance was still that of a woman who had not long passed her thirtieth milestone.  The supple lines of her figure held the merest suggestion of maturity in their gracious curves, and the rich chestnut hair, swathed round her small, fine head, gleamed with the sheen which only youth or immense vitality bestows.  Her skin was of that almost dazzling purity which is so often found in conjunction with reddish hair, and the defect of over-light brows and lashes, which not infrequently mars the type, was conspicuously absent.  Her eyes were arresting.  They were of a deep, hyacinth blue, very luminous and soft, and quite beautiful.  But they held a curiously veiled expression—­a something guarded and inscrutable—­as though they hid some secret inner knowledge sentinelled from the world at large.