"Not now," with a queer look, half amusement, half irritation. "I don't belong to Avonsbridge. I have a house of my own in the country—such a pretty place, with a park, and deer, and a lake, and a boat to row on it. Wouldn't you like to see it?"
"Yes." said Arthur, all eyes and ears.
"I live there, but I am always coming over to Avonsbridge. Do what I will, I can not keep away."
The tone, the glance across the child, were unmistakable. Christian rose, her momentary stupefaction gone.
"Come, Arthur, papa will be waiting dinner. We never keep papa waiting, you know."
Simple as the words were, they expressed volumes.
For an instant her composed matronly grace—her perfect indifference, silenced, nay, almost awed the young man, and then irritated him into resistance. He caught hold of Arthur in passing.
"You need not go yet. It is only just five, and your papa does not dine till six."
"How do you know?" asked the child.
"Oh. I know every thing. I watch you in and out of the Lodge, and am aware of all you do. But about the boat I promised you. It is at my place, Lake Hall, near—"