"I am never here for more than one night at a time," explained Rada, "and I suppose, since I slept here last night, that Mr. Willis did not expect me to turn up again. I was about the garden all the morning, and wondered what had become of him. I put the roses in the vases, but I suppose he thought they were yesterday's."
"I see." Mostyn slowly nodded his head. He had seated himself facing the girl, and he could not withdraw his eyes from her face. How bewitchingly elf-like she looked, as she sat there with the light of the moon shining upon her—for the room was but dimly lit by the shaded lamps at the far end. Yes, elf-like was the word, or perhaps Rada was even more correct in describing herself as an imp. She had taken off her flower-bedecked hat, and her black, glistening curls framed a face that seemed to glow with life and mischief.
"It's all very simple," she went on. "You see, Mr. Clithero, we live, my father and I, not very far from here. It's only a couple of miles across the fields, though a bit longer by road. Barton Mill is the name of the place; it was once the old mill-house, but the mill's been disused for years. We are not well off, and my father got the house for next to nothing."
Rada bit her lip, as though her explanation was not as easy as she had thought, then continued: "My father's a queer-tempered man, and I suppose I'm rather an impossible person myself at times. We are apt to have little quarrels." She flushed slightly, a very unusual thing with Rada, as she made the admission. "When there's any little difference between us," she went on, "I run away, and instal myself here for twenty-four hours or so; then, when I go home things are all right again. I'm great friends with Mr. and Mrs. Willis, and they are accustomed to have me about the place."
Mostyn, from his own experience with Captain Armitage, could easily appreciate the discomforts of the girl's home. Rada's father was a drunkard—there was no other word for it—and it was easy to imagine that there were times when he would become quite unbearable: it stood to reason that the girl must sometimes have a hard time of it.
"I'm quite a wild creature when I'm in the country, you see, Mr. Clithero," Rada resumed; "not at all the same girl whom you saw in London playing at gentility." She was speaking earnestly now, the mockery of her manner put aside. This was an extraordinary characteristic of Rada's, and one that Mostyn had already noticed. She would pass quickly from mood to mood; she was just as capricious as an April day.
She sighed, and glanced round the room. "I have almost come to look upon everything here as my own," she said, "and I shall feel having to be shut out in the future."
Mostyn leant forward, speaking eagerly, and again expressing himself with words that he had no intention of saying. "I hope you will come here as often as you like, Miss Armitage. I am glad to know that we are such near neighbours. I shall probably live here, because I want to be near the training stables. I am going in for racing," he added impulsively.
Once more she broke out into musical laughter, laughter which had the ring of derision in it. Mostyn drew himself up stiffly; the momentary spell which had fallen upon him was broken.
"You are going in for racing, Mr. Clithero—you!" There was painful emphasis upon the pronoun. "Do you mean to say that you've taken up my challenge of the other day seriously? You are going to win the Derby in five years' time? Forgive me laughing, but really, I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you, and with some hope of success."