Instinct! Thornhill did not like that word, and it was no mere flash in the pan either. The child was so confoundedly sharp at leaping to conclusions; generally accurate ones too, and that with nothing to go upon. He had tried to assume his normal unconcern of speech and manner, in talking on this subject—for this was not the first time it had been brought up—and could only wonder if he had succeeded.
“Are you afraid of him, then?” he said at last.
“Afraid? No. But I don’t like him, and I wish he’d clear. I don’t believe he’s up to any good at all here.”
“Now, dear, aren’t you just a trifle unreasonable as to this particular ‘bee’ of yours?” said her father, somewhat annoyed. “You say you’re not afraid of him, and I’ve told you the man is useful to me in ways. Now am I to run this farm or are you? That’s the question.”
“I don’t want to run the place, of course. I’m only afraid this paragon of yours is aiming at doing that. What a perfectly beastly afternoon,” she broke off, turning away from the window.
“Ah well, we can do with rain,” he answered. “Another night’s downpour ’ll make all the difference in the world. Getting hipped, eh? Go and thump the keyboard a bit—you never get tired of that—and forget the existence of the obnoxious Manamandhla.”
“If I shan’t disturb you.”
“You know, dear, you never do disturb me,” he answered, tenderly.
The girl passed into the other room, and sat down at her piano.
“What a little beast I am to him,” she was thinking—“and yet—and yet! It all seems too awful. How I wish he would let me go away, as I wanted to.”