‘No such thing!’ She swooped upon the child, and lifted him up in her arms. ‘There! I declare I could carry you myself!’
‘He’s too heavy for you!’
‘He will crush your pelisse!’
She shrugged as these objections were uttered, and relinquished the child. Colonel Audley tossed him up on to his shoulder, and the whole party was about to walk in the direction of the pavilion when Lavisse, who had been watching from a little distance, came forward, and clicked his
heels together in one of his flourishing salutes.
Lady Worth bowed with distant civility; Barbara looked as though she did not care to be discovered in such a situation; only the Colonel said with easy good humour: ‘Hallo! You know my sister, I believe. And Miss Devenish—Sir Peregrine Taverner?’
‘Ah, I have not previously had the honour! Mademoiselle! Monsieur!’ Two bows were executed; the Count looked slyly towards Barbara, and waved a hand to include the whole group. ‘You must permit me to compliment you upon the pretty tableau you make; I am perhaps de trop, but shall beg leave to join the party.’
‘By all means,’ said the Colonel. ‘We are taking my nephew to see the swans.’
‘You cannot want to carry him, Charles,’ said Judith in a low voice.
‘Fiddle!’ he replied. ‘Why should I not want to carry him?’
She thought that the picture he made with the child on his shoulder was too domestic to be romantic, but could scarcely say so. He set off towards the pavilion with Miss Devenish beside him; Barbara imperiously demanded Sir Peregrine’s arm; and as the path was not broad enough to allow of four persons walking abreast, Judith was left to bring up the rear with Lavisse.
This arrangement was accepted by the Count with all the outward complaisance of good manners. Though his eyes might follow Barbara, his tongue uttered every civil inanity required of him. He was ready to discuss the political situation, the weather, or mutual acquaintances, and, in fact, touched upon all these topics with the easy address of a fashionable man.
Upon their arrival at the sheet of water by the pavilion his air of fashion left him. Judith was convinced that nothing could have been further from his inclination than to throw bread to a pair of swans, but he clapped his hands together, declaring that the swans must and should be fed, and ran off to the pavilion to procure crumbs for the purpose.
He came back presently with some cakes, a circumstance which shocked Miss Devenish into exclaiming against such extravagance.
‘Oh, such delicious little cakes, and all for the swans! Some stale bread would have been better!’
The Count said gaily: ‘They have no stale bread, mademoiselle; they were offended at the very suggestion. So what would you?’
‘I am sure the swans will much prefer your cakes, Etienne,’ said Barbara, smiling at him for the first time.
‘If only you may not corrupt their tastes!’ remarked Audley, holding on to his nephew’s skirts.
‘Ah, true! A swan with an unalterable penchant for cake: I fear he would inevitably starve!’
‘He might certainly despair of finding another patron with your lavish notions of largess,’ observed Barbara.
She stepped away from the group, in the endeavour to coax one of the swans to feed from her hand; after a few moments the Count joined her, while Colonel Audley still knelt, holding his nephew on the brink of the lake, and directing his erratic aim in crumb throwing.
Judith made haste to relieve him of his charge, saying in an undervoice as she bent over her son: ‘Pray, let me take Julian. You do not want to be engaged with him.’
‘Don’t disturb yourself, my dear sister. Julian and I are doing very well, I assure you.’
She replied with some tartness: ‘I hope you will not be stupid enough to allow that man to take your place beside Barbara! There, get up! I have Julian fast.’
He rose, but said with a smile: ‘Do you think me a great fool? Now I was preening myself on being a wise man!’
He moved away before she could answer him, and joined Miss Devenish, who was sitting on a rustic bench, drawing diagrams in the gravel with the ferrule of her sunshade. In repose her face had a wistful look, but at the Colonel’s approach she raised her eyes, and smiled, making room for him to sit beside her.
‘Of all the questions in the world I believe What are you thinking about? to be the most impertinent,’ he said lightly.
She laughed, but with a touch of constraint. ‘Oh—I don’t know what I was thinking about! The swans—the dear little boy—Lady Worth—how I envy her!’
These last words were uttered almost involuntarily. The Colonel said: ‘Envy her? Why should you do so?’
She coloured, and looked down. ‘I don’t know how I came to say that. Pray do not regard it!’ She added in a stumbling way: ‘One does take such fancies! It is only that she is so happy, and good . . . ’