“Did he come in since morning?” asked he, abruptly.
“No, sir, never,” replied she, with a half courtesy.
“Nor say what time he 'd be back?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“Then, maybe, he's not coming back,—taken French leave, as they call it, eh, Joan?”
The sound of her name, spoken, too, in an accent of more friendly meaning, lighted up her face at once, and her large eyes swam in tears of gratitude towards him as she stood there.
“But he 'd scarcely dare to do that!” said he, sternly.
“No, sir,” said she, echoing half unconsciously his opinion.
“And what do you know about it?” said he, turning savagely on her. “Where were you born and bred, to say what any gentleman might do, at any time, or in anything? Is it Joan Landy, the herd's daughter, is going to play fine lady upon us! Faix, we 're come to a pretty pass now, in earnest! Be off with you! Away! Stop, what was that? Did n't you hear a shot?”
“I did, sir,—quite near the house, too.”