She got up and glided across the room, and out of the door, with that soft way she had. Harrod had sat down again to the table and the papers.
"What's the matter with Joyce?" I asked, bluntly, almost before the door had closed.
He looked at me with those honest eyes of his. I could see that he scorned to make any pretence, any evasive answer.
"I have been speaking to her of something that distressed her," he said. "I should not have done it. I am sorry. I did not think it would have distressed her."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what it was. I don't know whether it was natural good-feeling and politeness that prevented me, or whether I simply dreaded the answer. I tried to think that the "something" related to Frank Forrester's accident, but I did not ask. "I did not think it would have distressed her" might point to that explanation, as of course Harrod knew nothing of any relations between her and the captain. It might, but there was an undefined fear within me that it did not.
Harrod dropped his eyes again on the papers on the table, and took up the pen. An insane, wicked desire came upon me to hurt him for innocently hurting me.
"Mr. Harrod," said I, roughly, "Reuben has been talking to me outside. He thinks the hops are looking very badly."
He laid down the pen, and looked up, with an underlip that quivered a little.
"Reuben's opinion is not so infallible as I fancy you suppose, Miss Margaret," said he, trying to smile. "Your father has been round the property, and is, I fancy, quite as well able to judge of it as Reuben Ruck."
"Oh, did father think the hops looked well, then?" asked I.