"Good-morning, Miss Nan," he said cheerily. "Is not this ever so much better than Clapham Common?"
I could not but admit that it was, for the garden was now in the perfection of its beauty. The breeze, which ruffled my hair as I advanced to the door, was sweet with the breath of flowers. The rose-tree trained against the wall of the house was full of blossoms, and bees were buzzing noisily as they flitted from rose to rose. A fine hydrangea growing by the door was a marvel of changeful colour, and close by a cluster of tall, graceful Madonna lilies, of purest whiteness, attracted the bees by their heavy perfume. It was a morning to make one sing for joy. I was feeling happy enough at that moment, and I was therefore astonished when Mr. Faulkner said, after observing me for a moment:
"What is the trouble, Miss Nan?"
"The trouble!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"
"There was a shadow on your face last evening, and I fancy that I can still detect its influence," he said. "You found nothing wrong at home, I trust?"
"Oh, no! They were all well, and things were going happily," I replied. "There was nothing there to worry me."
"But something did worry you," he said. "Can't you tell me what it is? I might be able to set it right."
"Oh, no!" I answered, colouring hotly in my confusion and surprise. "You could not help, and I could not tell you indeed."
His eyes studied me for a moment with a questioning air; then he said quietly:
"Excuse me, Miss Nan, I must seem to you a curious, meddlesome fellow."