“Yes. It is a part of Cranston,” answered Olive, looking surprised.
“Oh—ah! I see. But you said my property. Now Cranston is not my property, and very likely never will be.”
This remark was made with a purpose. How would that strike her? he thought, and he watched her narrowly. But, however it happened to strike her, she took care that he should be none the wiser.
“Why do you take me up so sharply?” she expostulated with pretty mock petulance. “Really I shall become quite afraid of you if you are going to be so precise. One can’t always think for five minutes or so before making every innocent little remark. Now can one?”
“Of course not. What’s that extraordinary looking fissure there in front? It seems as if a stroke of lightning had split the whole cliff from brow to base.”
“That is Smugglers’ Ladder. It is well worth seeing. I’ve only been there once. We must make up a picnic and go there some day. Are you fond of picnics, Mr Dorrien?”
“Passionately—under some circumstances. But can’t we get as far this afternoon?”
Olive looked dubious.
“It’s a long way. Further than it seems. And father was right. It’s coming on to rain.”
“So it is. Here we are at our destination, though, and we can shelter under the rock.”