“I have been abroad,” Wingrave answered. “I am not fond of England.”
“You had trouble here, I know,” she said frankly. “But that is all past and over. I think that you must forget how beautiful your home is or you would never bear to live away from it. Now, please, may I ask you a question?”
“Any that you think necessary,” Wingrave answered. “Spare me as much as possible; I am not fond of them.”
“Shall I leave you two together for a little time?” Mr. Pengarth suggested, gathering up some papers.
“Certainly not,” Wingrave said shortly. “There is not the slightest necessity for it.”
Mr. Pengarth resumed his seat.
“Just as you please,” he answered. “But you must sit down, Juliet. There, you shall have my clients’ chair.”
The girl accepted it with a little laugh. There was no shadow of embarrassment about her manner, notwithstanding the cold stiffness of Wingrave’s deportment. He sat where the sunlight fell across his chair, and the lines in his pale face seemed deeper than usual, the grey hairs more plentiful, the weariness in his eyes more apparent. Yet she was not in the least afraid of him.
“First of all, then, Sir Wingrave, may I ask you why you have been so extraordinarily kind to me?”
“There is nothing extraordinary about it at all,” he answered. “Your father died and left you friendless in a parish of which I am Lord of the Manor. He received a starvation pittance for his labors, which it was my duty to augment, a duty which, with many others, I neglected. I simply gave orders that you should be looked after.”