She did not start, but she turned her head and looked at him, with a sudden coldness in the glorious eyes.
"Your father—Sir Stephen Orme? Then you are—"
"I am his son, yes; my name is Stafford Orme."
She gathered her reins up, as if no comment, no remark were necessary, but Stafford could not let her go, could not part from her like that.
"I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Heron has some cause of complaint, some grievance against my father. I can understand his not liking the house; to tell you the truth, I don't care for it much myself. Yes; I can understand Mr. Heron's annoyance; I suppose he can see it from your house?"
"No," she said, simply. "This is the only part of our land from which it can be seen, and my father never comes here: never leaves the grounds, the garden." She paused a moment. "I don't know why you should mind—except that I said that the land was got unfairly—I wish I had not said that."
Stafford coloured.
"So do I," he said; "but I hope it isn't true. There may be some mistake. I don't know anything about my father's affairs—I haven't seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him."
She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but
Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.
His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again
surprised even his most intimate friends.
"Miss Heron, I'm afraid—" He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast and fixed on the horse's ears.