“Nunks,” she said, “it is Gregory Ballaston.”
“That is a young man,” her uncle observed, “with whom I might have something to say. Wave to him, Claire. He need not tug at that bell.”
Gregory Ballaston, hat in hand, and probably less at his ease than on any previous occasion in his life, crossed the lawn towards them. Claire, leaning forward, watched him intently; her uncle with subdued and somewhat sardonic amusement. His attitude towards them both was entirely tentative. Claire offered her hand which he took gratefully.
“I have come,” he announced, “to welcome you to Ballaston.”
“Your obvious duty as our landlord,” Endacott remarked, also offering his hand. “Pray sit down.”
Gregory dragged up a wicker chair, with an air of relief.
“When you spoke of settling down in Norfolk,” he observed, turning to Claire, “I had no idea that we might possibly become such near neighbours.”
“Nor I, at the time,” she answered. “How beautiful your house is. I spent quite half an hour this morning looking at it from the other side of the garden.”
“I hope,” he said, a little anxiously, “that you are going to give us the pleasure of seeing you there this evening.”
“Your father has been kind enough to ask us to dine,” Mr. Endacott rejoined. “I have just despatched a note, accepting with much pleasure.”