"Ah," he says, smiling gravely, "that was a rough sort of invasion! I hope I shall never have to attack Donaghmore in that fashion again."
"I hope not indeed!" Honor agrees promptly. "I don't think I could live through another night like that."
"Oh, yes, you could—through a dozen such, if necessary. I quite admired your bravery. I never saw a young lady so cool under fire before."
She blushes as she listens; her heart thrills with a half-reluctant pride at his praise.
"What has come to me," she says to herself crossly, "that I can't look at the man without blushing? It's time I had more sense."
"I have come to stay a day or two," he tells them.
A week passes, however, and he does not go away. To Honor it is a week of very mixed sensations. She has never before known any one like this stolid Englishman, who under all his composure hides a passion so fiery, a will so strong.
On his part he is very grave and gentle. Not once does a word of love pass his lips; and she is glad of it, for she is in no mood to think of love or lovers.
"It would be horrible to think of such things," she tells herself, "while poor Power Magill is wandering in homeless misery."
She is thinking of him to-night as she looks out at the moonlight, lying chill and white on the grass and the bare flower-beds.