"You don't dislike her, do you?"
"No-o, not exactly."
"She's—the truth is, she is not at all well," with a trifle of hesitance; "she ought to be better taken care of than she is in lodgings, and they are obliged to take very cheap ones."
"If he had been a more respectable fellow his circumstances would have been different," rather stiffly.
Emily felt alarmed. She had not dreamed of the temerity of any remark suggestive of criticism.
"Yes," hastily, "of course. I am sure you know best; but—I thought perhaps—"
Walderhurst liked her timidity. To see a fine, tall, upstanding creature colour in that way was not disagreeable when one realised that she coloured because she feared she might offend one.
"What did you think 'perhaps'?" was his lenient response.
Her colour grew warmer, but this time from a sense of relief, because he was evidently not as displeased as he might have been.
"I took a long walk this morning," she said. "I went through the High Wood and came out by the place called The Kennel Farm. I was thinking a good deal of poor Mrs. Osborn because I had heard from her this morning, and she seemed so unhappy. I was looking at her letter again when I turned into the lane leading to the house. Then I saw that no one was living there, and I could not help going in to look—it is such a delightful old building, with its queer windows and chimneys, and the ivy which seems never to have been clipped. The house is so roomy and comfortable—I peeped in at windows and saw big fireplaces with benches inside them. It seems a pity that such a place should not be lived in and—well, I thought how kind it would be of you to lend it to the Osborns while they are in England."