"Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined.
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