She kissed him again and drew the sheet over his face.
"He must have been a fine man. I forgive. Come, let's go."
Outside, the world was with us—and I wondering whether that was what I had really said.
At least she seemed to bear me no ill-will. "Are you free to come for a walk?" she asked. "I should like some fresh air."
"Would you like to see the gardens?"
"No—that means pottering. Take me for a good spin."
By a happy thought I remembered Tor Hill and took her there. The hill lies at the extremity of the Priory park, looking down on the road which separates our dominions from the Fillingford country; beyond the road the Manor itself can be seen by glimpses through the woods which surround it. Catsford lies in the valley to the left; away to the right, but not in sight, lay Oxley Lodge, and Overington Grange, the seat of Sir John Aspenick. Here she could take a bird's-eye view of her position and that of her nearest neighbors.
"I'm glad to see Fillingford," she remarked. "My father mentioned it—in the earlier part of that letter. He said that he had wanted to buy it, but Lord Fillingford couldn't or wouldn't sell."
"His son's consent was necessary—that's the present man—and he wouldn't give it. Indeed the story runs that he hated Mr. Driver for trying to buy."
She seemed to take as careful a view of Fillingford Manor as the distance and the trees allowed.