"Perhaps you will explain yourself," she added, when he reached her side.
Mostyn felt himself in a ridiculous position. It was he who was being called upon to give an explanation, and yet Rada Armitage was so palpably the intruder, the one who should be summoned to explain.
"I am here," he faltered, almost apologetically, "because the house is mine, and I have to-day come down from London to take possession of it."
"Partinborough Grange yours?" Rada had ceased to smile, but she was in no way disconcerted. "How can that be? The Grange belonged to Mr. Royce. He was no relation of yours, was he?"
"He left me the house by will," Mostyn explained; "that is the simple truth. And now, Miss Armitage——"
He was about to ask her to account for her presence, but she interrupted him sharply. "And how dared you call me by my Christian name just now? I don't think I have allowed you that privilege!"
She did not speak as though she were annoyed. In spite of the sharpness of her tone there was a curious laughing light in her eyes, a half-mocking expression, which Mostyn could not understand, though he felt that he was blushing scarlet, and was proportionately angry with himself.
Why should he have called her Rada? Why had he, ever since that day upon the coach, thought of her by that name? The word had escaped him involuntarily, and no doubt the girl had every right to be indignant.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I must apologise for that. It was in the surprise of the moment——"
"I see." Her eyes were still sparkling, and she was palpably enjoying Mostyn's discomfiture as well as the whole situation. She stretched out her hand, a daintily-fashioned hand with small, cool fingers. "I'll forgive you, Mr. Clithero, and I suppose it is I who must humbly ask your pardon for my intrusion. Awfully unconventional, isn't it? But I'm not a lady burglar come after the silver—there is none, by the way—or anything of that sort. I'm quite a commonplace little person, really."