"I s'pose your father 'll walk back with you," James said beforehand. One way and another, he contrived to see a good deal of Marigold.
"Oh, there's no need. I shan't be late. Mrs. Heavitree won't let me, because she does so dislike girls walking about alone late. Father will be busy."
"You won't get away early, and it's a long stretch. I'll be there, you may be sure. I'll be somewhere about outside."
Marigold hesitated. "I don't think father 'd like it," she said.
"Rubbish! Of course he'd like it. Mrs. Plunkett mayn't, and what then?"
"I don't think I ought to go against her. Mrs. Heavitree says I oughtn't."
"Well, you needn't. You've got nothing to do with the matter. If I just choose to be there, you can't help it."
Marigold's truthful nature rose against this crooked reasoning. She knew that she would be wrong to consent, yet she could not resolve to forbid him. Mrs. Plunkett had been fearfully irritable all day, and Marigold's patience was worn to a shred.
She let the question pass, and asked, "How do you like your work?"
"Oh, I've given that up. It meant a lot more than I expected. I shouldn't have had a moment, morning, noon, nor night. I've a mind now to get something to do with the care of horses. I like horses—always did—and I can manage 'em first rate."