So anxious was Sheila to hear Peter's opinion of her protégé that she would not allow him to stay too long talking with her.
"I have a lot to talk over with you," she said after a few minutes conversation. "Come and see the new beds I have had arranged by the lake." Then when they were out of earshot she asked, "Well? didn't I describe her correctly? Don't you think she is lovely?"
"Yes. But I don't approve of the plan any more than I did."
"Don't approve! Why, what is wrong with her?"
"Nothing. She strikes one as a thoroughly nice young woman, but I think it is the most cruel thing you can do for her, to rob her of her freedom and to keep her here."
Sheila stood still, confronting Peter with an expression of deep indignation in her eyes.
"Cruel? What on earth do you mean? I'm doing the kindest thing I possibly can. I'm treating her like a sister. She is to share my pleasures and all that I have. I can't understand what you mean."
"I'll tell you what I mean. When I was a boy we brought from Wales a little dog to which I took a great fancy, it belonged to a woman who lived on the mountains, and the dog had lived a thoroughly free life. I took it to London; we were living there at the time. The dog could only be taken for walks at stated times and its whole manner of life was changed. What do you think was the consequence? It drooped and died."
"That has nothing in the world to do with the question," said Sheila crossly.
"On the contrary. That girl taken out of her proper environment will suffer. She is a girl of the heather, and is not intended for your world and its ways. I consider it is cruel kindness on your part to make the experiment."