"The hops are a splendid crop now," said Harrod, without moving, as he lighted a fresh pipe. He never allowed himself to show if he were vexed.
But the squire did not reply. He rose and followed father. I'm sure he was sorry for what he had said. It was the solicitor who answered.
"It ought to be a fine crop," he said. "Maliphant paid a long price for it."
"How do you know what price he paid for it?" asked Harrod, sharply.
I fancied Mr. Hoad looked disconcerted for a moment, but he soon recovered himself.
"Well, to tell the truth, he did me the honor to ask my advice," he replied, with a sort of smile that I longed to shake him for. "No offence to you, Mr. Harrod, I hope," he added, blandly. "I know Maliphant holds your opinion in the highest reverence; but—well, I'm an old friend."
My blood boiled in the most absurd way; but Harrod was far too wise to be annoyed, or at any rate to show it. He only remained perfectly silent, smoking his pipe.
Father and the squire came up the lawn again; I wondered what they had said to each other. The evening was fresh and fragrant after the rain of the night before upon the hot earth; the dusky plain lay calm beneath us; the moon had just risen and lit the sea faintly in the distance; nature was quiet and sweet, but I felt somehow as though the pleasure of our evening was a little spoiled. Mother tried to pick up the talk again, but she was not altogether lucky in her choice of subjects.
"Why, squire, the girls tell me the right-of-way is closed across that bit of common by Dead Man's Lane," said she. "Do you know whose doing it is?"
Father turned round sharply.