He looked at me so quickly.
“No! no! no!” he exclaimed. “You mustn’t think that! Certainly not silly.”
I do not think he knew that he put out his hand and gently touched my arm, as one might touch a child to make it feel one wanted it to listen.
“You don’t know,” he said in his low, slow voice, “how glad I am that you have talked to me. Sir Ian said you were not fond of talking to people, and I wanted to know you.”
“You care about places like Muircarrie. That is why,” I answered, feeling at once how much he understood. “I care for Muircarrie more than for all the rest of the world. And I suppose you saw it in my face. I dare say that the people who love that kind of life cannot help seeing it there.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is in your eyes. It was what I saw and found myself wondering about when I watched you in the train. It was really the moor and the mist and the things you think are hidden in it.”
“Did you watch me?” I asked. “I could not help watching you a little, when you were so kind to the poor woman. I was afraid you would see me and think me rude.”
“It was the far look in your face I watched,” he said. “If you will come to tea under the big apple-tree I will tell you more about it.”
“Indeed I will come,” I answered. “Now we must go and sit among the other people—those who don’t care about Muircarrie at all.”