At any other time this speech would have filled me with curiosity and probably alarm, but just now I was so intent upon that idea of humbling myself and "putting matters straight" that I scarcely even noticed it.
"I suppose he doesn't often read it before the evening, does he?" added Harrod.
"Sometimes he does," said I. "I'll do my best. What is there in it—something bad about hops?"
The preoccupied look changed into one of simple annoyance and anger.
"I'm afraid it is," said I, blundering, and trying to find my way to the explanation that I wanted. "But never mind. As you said yesterday, hops are always very difficult things, and father must know that quite well. It was very stupid of me to say what I did yesterday about them, Mr. Harrod. I was talking foolishly. But I do know better than that, you know."
I spoke gently, but the frown deepened almost into a scowl on the bailiff's face.
"What on earth makes you think hops have anything to do with the matter?" cried he.
His lip trembled in that dreadful way I have noticed in him before. It was very slight, so slight that any one else might not have noticed it, but to me it was horrible—it terrified me. Yes; and two months ago I had never seen him look so—I did not know it was possible.
"I beg your pardon," said he, in a low voice; "but indeed the subject that I referred to in the paper has nothing at all to do with agriculture of any sort."