“Don’t you like it, then?” he said, in a disappointed tone.
“Oh!” she exclaimed with a change to enthusiasm, “do you mean this place? It is simply delightful. It holds the greatest possibilities, and I am longing to begin. It is far, far more beautiful than I expected; but of course it may be made more beautiful still.”
He nodded. He was looking at her, at the eager light in her eyes, at her smiling lips, at the dimple so absurdly attractive. This, he was sure, was what Thornbury wanted. She went on—
“May I really cut freely? Your father will not object?”
He winced. Claudia did not ask whether he cared, yet to no one at Thornbury was every stick and stone of the old place so dear as to himself. His father buried himself in his books and his infirmities, and his mother saw everything through the medium of her son’s eyes. But there was not a tree, nor a patch of shadow on the grass, nor tangle of underwood, nor green sweep of bracken, nor haunt of squirrel, which Harry did not know and love.
“He won’t object,” he said hesitatingly. “But—when you think you must cut, you won’t mind, will you, telling me beforehand?”
“Oh no,” she said, “not in the least. I know people have fancies and prejudices, and I should not like to hurt them, of course. Now will you please go away?”
“Go away! Why? Have I offended you?”
“Offended me? Why should you think so?” said Claudia, opening her eyes in frank wonder. “But you forget that I am here professionally, and have my work to do.”
“You’re not going to work all day!” he exclaimed in dismay.