"Well really," said Una with a laugh, "what can I say? it is Mr. Blake's business and not mine."
"Still, you take an interest in him," observed Beaumont keenly.
"As a very clever man I do," replied Una serenely, for she was determined not to betray her love to this cold-eyed man of the world. "I think it is a pity he should be condemned to stay down here."
"I think so also," said Beaumont cordially, for he was too crafty to press a question he saw might prove distasteful to the proud woman before him, "so I'll speak to Blake."
"And how are you getting on with my cousin's picture?" asked Una, dexterously turning the conversation as they walked down the terrace.
"Oh, very well indeed--it will make an excellent picture, and I enjoy talking to the Squire, his ideas are so very strange."
"The effect of solitude I've no doubt," replied Una absently, "a solitary existence generally engenders strange thoughts."
"Exactly. I'd rather talk to a recluse than to a man or woman of the world, for although the ideas of a hermit may be old fashioned they are infinitely fresh."
"Sometimes I do--man is a gregarious animal you know--but Society people as a rule are fearful humbugs. I suppose a certain amount of deception is necessary to make things go smooth. A tells B lies and B knows they are lies, still he believes them, because to preserve a necessary friendship with A it won't do to tell him he's a liar; if all our friends were put in the Palace of Truth it would be a mighty unpleasant world, I assure you."
"But you don't think it is necessary to tell lies to make things go smoothly?" said Una rather shocked.
"I daresay that's the plain, brutal truth," retorted Beaumont coolly; "lies are the oil which diplomacy pours on the troubled waters of Society. Lord, what a world of humbugs we are to be sure."
"Well, good-bye just now," said Una laughing, as she turned away, "don't forget to tell Mr. Blake about London."
"Oh no, I won't forget," replied Beaumont, and taking off his hat, he strolled away down the avenue, very well satisfied with the result of his conversation.
"I think I've succeeded in pacifying her," he murmured to himself, "now she sees how anxious I am to help her lover she won't distrust me any more--it's the parable of the sower over again--a little seed sown in fruitful ground bears a goodly crop--now I am sowing the seed--when I get Reginald in London I will reap the harvest."