They were both silent for a while, watching a spider that was exploring Don's boot-lace.
“It all seems so footless now. What I want is a house of my own, a home, I mean. I never had much of that sort of thing—I'm not quite sure I knew what a home was until I saw Thornwood.”
“Isn't it dear?” asked Miss Lady with a loving look over her shoulder at the old house silhouetted against the sky. “I could kiss every brick of it, I love it so.”
“I wish I didn't have to go back to town tonight!” burst out Donald inconsequentially. “I wish I never had to go back to it!”
“Why?”
“Oh, for lots of reasons. I'm a different fellow down here in the country, with things to do, and the right sort of things to think about, and—and you! You see,” he smiled without looking up, “I'm not much good in town.”
“How do you mean?” asked Miss Lady, with disconcerting frankness.
Donald shrugged his broad shoulders: “Oh! I don't know. I get into things before I know it. This Eastern trip, now; it sounded great when I said I'd go, Cropsie is a regular bird, the best fellow in the world to go on such a lark with, but—”
Miss Lady shot a glance at the handsome, boyish, irresponsible face beside her.
“Don't go, Don!” she whispered impulsively; “stay here and buy your farm!”