Sara, meeting their still, enigmatic gaze, was subtly conscious of an odd sense of repulsion, almost amounting to dread, and then Elisabeth, making some trivial observation as she moved nearer to the fire, smiled across at her, and, in the extraordinary charm of her smile, the momentary sensation of fear was forgotten.

Nevertheless, it was with a feeling of relief that Sara encountered the gay, frank glance of the son.

Tim Durward, though dowered to the full with his mother’s beauty, had yet been effectually preserved from the misfortune of being an effeminate repetition of her.  In him, Elisabeth’s glowing auburn colouring had sobered to a steady brown—­evidenced in the crisp, curly hair and sun-tanned skin; and the misty hyacinth-blue of her eyes had hardened in the eyes of her son into the clear, bright azure of the sea, whist the beautiful contours of her face, repeated in his, had strengthened into a fine young virility.

“I can’t cure mother of introducing me as if I were the Lord Mayor,” he murmured plaintively to Sara as they sat down to tea.  “I suppose it’s the penalty of being an only son.”

“Nothing of the sort,” asserted Elisabeth composedly.  “Naturally I’m pleased with you—­you’re so absurdly like me.  I always look upon you in the light of a perpetual compliment, because you’ve elected to grow up like me instead of like Geoffrey”—­nodding towards her husband.  “After all, you had us both to choose from.”

Tim shouted with delight.

“Listen to her, Miss Tennant!  And for years I’ve been mistaking mere vulgar female vanity for maternal solicitude.”

“Anyway, you’re a very poor compliment,” threw in Major Durward, with an expressive glance at his wife’s beautiful face.  It was obvious that he worshipped her, and she smiled across at him, blushing adorably, just like a girl of sixteen.

Tim turned to Sara with a grimace.

“It’s a great trial, Miss Tennant, to be blessed with two parents—­”

“It’s quite usual,” interpolated Geoffrey mildly.

“Two parents,” continued Tim, firmly ignoring him, “who are hopelessly, besottedly in love with each other.  Instead of being—­as I ought to be—­the apple of their eye—­of both their eyes—­I’m merely the shadowy third.”

Sara surveyed his goodly proportions consideringly.

“No one would have suspected it,” she assured him; and Tim grinned appreciatively.

“If you stay with us long,” he replied, “as I hope”—­impressively—­“you will, you’ll soon perceive how utterly I am neglected.  Perhaps”—­his face brightening—­“you may be moved to take pity on my solitude—­quite frequently.”

“Tim, stop being an idiot,” interposed his mother placidly, holding out her cup, “and ask Miss Tennant to give me another lump of sugar.”