“Ha! ha! You may well look astonished. Rather different to when we last met,” she said bitterly. “But come inside and we can talk. Don’t be afraid,” seeing him hesitate; “I’m quite alone.”
“Oh, that alters the case materially. You see, I never was one to mince matters. Therefore I don’t mind telling you that this isn’t New York, but a confoundedly gossipy little English provincial place. Moral—One must be circumspect. And now, Lizzie,” he went on, sliding into a big wooden chair, “tell me all about yourself—and—and how it is you’re trying the rôle of cottage maiden—and here above all places in the world.”
“That’s soon said. I’m keeping house for father.”
“‘For father’? I don’t quite see. If it’s a fair question, who the deuce is he?”
“Stephen Devine—and he’s now up before the magistrates for catching some of your hares. Yours, mind.”
Roland whistled. Surprise followed upon surprise. Surprise one—to find this girl here at all. Surprise two—that she should turn out to be the daughter of Stephen Devine, the greatest rascal on the whole countryside. He had known her under another name.
“Lizzie, I’ll be quite candid with you. The fact is, this unexpected parent of yours enjoys the reputation of being—well, a ‘bad lot.’ Do you intend to take up your quarters here with him altogether?”
“That’s as may be. Didn’t you know I was here?”
“Know it? How should I?”
“I don’t believe you did. I’m pretty sharp, you see, and the jump you gave when you saw me was no make-believe. I’ve only been here a fortnight, no longer than you have. I came over in the ‘Balearic,’ the steamer before yours. It was queer that we should both have returned home at the same time, wasn’t it? And how do you think I’m looking?”