Stafford broke it at last. It is the man who cannot be contented with silence; he thirsts for his mistress's voice.
"Dearest, what shall I do? You must tell me," he said, as if he had been thinking. "I will do whatever you wish, whatever you think best. I've a strong suspicion that you're the cleverest of us; that you've got more brains in this sweet little finger of yours than I've got in my clumsy head—"
She laughed softly and looked at the head which he had libelled, the shapely head with its close-cut hair, which, sliding her hand up, she touched caressingly.
"Shall I come to your father to-morrow, Ida? I will ride over after breakfast—before, if you like: if I had my way I'd patrol up and down here all night until it was a decent time to call upon him."
She nestled a little closer to him, and her brows came level with sudden gravity and doubt.
"My father! I had not thought of him—of what he would say—do. But I know! He—he will be very angry," she said, in a low voice.
"Will he? Why?" Stafford asked. "Of course I know I'm not worthy of you, Ida; no living man is!"
"Not worthy!"
She smiled at him with the woman's worship already dawning in her deep grey eyes.
"It is I who am not worthy. Why, think! I am only an inexperienced girl—living the life of a farmer's daughter. We are very poor—oh, you do not know how poor! We are almost as poor as the smallest tenant, though we live in this big house, and are still regarded as great people—the Herons of Herondale."