"I scarcely know how to put what I want to say," he said. "I'm rather bad at explaining myself; but I—well, I hope you won't feel angry with me because of the house, because of anything that has passed between your father and mine—Of course I stand by him; but—well, I didn't build the confounded place—I beg your pardon! but I think it's rather hard that you should cut me—oh, I can see by your face that you mean to do it!—that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because—"
The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.
"Why should you mind?" she said, with almost childish innocence. "You do not know me; we only met yesterday—we are not friends—Oh I am not forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!—but what can it matter to you?"
In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such suspicion.
"I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much," he retorted. "In the first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next, we shall be neighbours—I'm going to stay there—" he nodded grimly at the beautiful "little place."
"Neighbours?" she said, half absently. "It is farther off than you think; and, besides, we know no one. We have no neighbours in that sense—or friends. My father does not like to see anyone; we live quite alone—"
"So I've heard—" He stopped and bit his lip; but she did not seem to have noticed his interruption.
—"So that even if my father did not object to the house or—or—"
"My father," said Stafford with a smile.
A smile answered his candour.