Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below.
"I don't think you know what you mean nor what you want," added I, impatiently.
Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I know that it will be all as it is ordained."
When Joyce talked about things being as they were ordained, it always put me in a horrible temper; and it was either this or some little feeling of awkwardness in my mind about Harrod which made me reply very shortly when she began asking me presently about the new bailiff.
From some motive entirely incomprehensible to myself, there arose within me a sudden dislike to the idea that Joyce should guess at my liking for him. And so when she asked what he was like, I replied, gruffly, "Oh, like many other men—plain and very obstinate."
This was true, but the impression that I gave in saying it was false; I knew that perfectly well, but I was too proud to change it, although in my heart I felt ashamed that I should be guilty of any sort of deception towards my dear, simple Joyce, and when I was really so glad to have her back again.
She looked distressed for a moment, but then she brightened up and said, gayly, "Well, many a good-fellow is plain, and as for being obstinate, that should be to your liking."
"So it is," said I. "Of course."
"I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate with father."