"It would be all the same. And why should it matter to you? You have a great many friends, no doubt—and we should not be likely to meet."
"Oh, yes, we should!" he said, with the dogged kind of insistence which also sometimes surprised his friends. "I was going to avail myself of your permission, and fish the stream—but, of course, I can't do that now."
"No—I suppose not," she assented. "But we should be sure to meet on the road—I should be riding—walking."
"But not on this side often," she argued.
A faint, very faint colour had stolen into the clear pallor of her cheek, her eyes were downcast. She was honestly surprised, and, yes, a little pleased that he should protest against the close of their acquaintance; pleased, though why, she could not have told; for it did not seem to matter.
"Oh, yes, I should," he retorted. "It's very pretty this side, and—See here, Miss Heron." He drew a little nearer and looked up at her with something like a frown in his eagerness. "Of course I shall speak to my father about—well, about the way the land was bought, and I'm hoping, I'm sure, that he will be able to explain it satisfactorily; and I want to tell you that it is a mistake. I don't know much of my father, but I can't believe that he would do anything underhand." He stopped suddenly as the bagman's remarks flashed across his memory. "If your father's grievance against him is just, why—ah, well, you'll have to cut me when we meet; but I don't think it is; and I don't think it would be fair to treat me as if I'd done something wrong."
Her brows came together, and she looked at him as if she were puzzled.
"I don't know why it matters," she said.
"Well, I can't tell you," he said, helplessly. "I only know that I don't want to part from you this morning, knowing that the next time we meet we should meet as strangers. I wanted to come to the Hall, to enquire after Mr. Heron."
Her face flushed.