“That meddling parson has been putting you up to that idea, I suppose!” he said sharply.
“No, I saw the cottages for myself. Oh, St. Quentin, can’t something be done?”
“Nothing!”
She looked at him with troubled eyes. “I expect I cost a good deal of money. Couldn’t I have fewer frocks and things of that kind? Or perhaps,” with an effort, “we might sell Bessie: keeping a horse is so expensive, I’ve heard father say.”
St. Quentin’s voice was stern as he stopped her. “Don’t talk of what you do not understand. I can do nothing for the cottages at present. If it’s any consolation to you, I will tell you this—I wish I could. There; talk of something else, for goodness’ sake!”
She talked on, though feeling little in the mood for conversation, and was rewarded by his exclamation of astonishment on learning the lateness of the hour when Dickson came in to light the lamp.
“Why, I’ve kept you here two mortal hours, forgetting all about the time; you must be sick of me! A nice way to make you spend your Christmas Day! However, you’ve made mine a bit more cheerful.”
As the girl passed his sofa on the way to the door, he took her hand, saying, “Have you forgiven me for what I said about the Chichesters the other day?”