“Have you any intention of asking him to?” Somehow the question stung her. It was so direct, so unerring, like the flick of a whip-lash. She dropped her eyes before his look. “I can do so,” she said with pride.
“Do you intend to?” he insisted.
She did not answer. Before that straight regard she could not lie.
He waited a moment or two, then to her surprise he sat down upon the grass by her side. “Ruth,” he said to the blind child standing silently beside him. “Go to the house and find my tobacco-pouch! Maggie is in the dairy. She will know where it is.”
Ruth went with instant obedience, and Arthur Dermot took off his cap and laid it on the grass.
“Now, Miss Thorold,” he said, “I am going to ask you another question.”
He spoke with the authority of a man not accustomed to be gainsaid, and again that odd quiver as of apprehension went through her. She lay in silence, waiting.
When he spoke again, she knew he was looking at her, but she did not meet his look.
“I want to know,” he said, “what it was that scared you so up at the Stones the night you came to us.”
“Ah!” She made a quick movement of protest. “I can’t tell you that,” she said.