"Well, then, you do like him?" cried Joyce.
"Who said I didn't?" answered I. "He's a downright honest fellow, with no nonsense about him."
It wasn't quite what I felt about Trayton Harrod, but it was as near as I could get to the truth, and it seemed to give Joyce some idea of my liking him, for she turned round with a brightened face, and laid her hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, Meg, you can't think how pleased you make me by saying that," she murmured, softly; "I have been afraid you would just set your face against the poor man out of mere obstinacy, and make things unpleasant for everybody. You do sometimes, you know. And when you never mentioned him in your letters, I made sure that was the reason. I thought you were just making yourself as disagreeable as ever you could to show you hated his coming to Knellestone."
"Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch," laughed I, awkwardly.
"You are tetchy when you have a mind to be, you know, though you can be so bright when you're pleased that one's forced to love you. That's just the pity."
"Well, of course, I did hate a bailiff coming to Knellestone," answered I; "but now that I see how much cleverer he is about farming than we are, I'm pleased."
"I see," said Joyce. "Then he is clever?"
"Oh yes," answered I. "He's clever."