Margaret was silent. She was walking ahead, her staff in her hand; the fallen trunks and heavy under-brush making it difficult for them to walk abreast.
"Do you think that he never had to work, to be able to enjoy himself as he does?" she asked over her shoulder, with a toss of her head.
"Perhaps—but he loved what he was doing."
"No, he didn't—he hated it—hated it all his life." The tone carried a touch of defiance that was new to Oliver. He stepped quickly after her, with a sudden desire to look into her face. Ten minutes, at least, had passed during which he had seen only the back of her head.
Margaret heard his step behind her and quickened her own. Something was disturbing the joyousness of our young Diana this lovely summer morning.
"What did the old fellow do for a living, Margaret?" Oliver called, still trying to keep up with Margaret's springing step.
"Sold lard and provisions, and over the counter, too," she answered, with a note almost of exultation in her voice (she was thinking of Mrs. Horn and Kennedy Square). "Mrs. Taft knows him and used to send him her bacon. He retired rich some years ago, and now he can sing all day if he wants to."
It was Oliver's turn to be silent. The tones of Margaret's voice had hurt him. For some minutes he made no reply. Then wheeling suddenly he sprang over a moss-covered trunk that blocked her path, stepped in front of her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Not offended, Margaret, are you?" he asked, looking earnestly into her eyes.
"No—what nonsense! Of course not. Why do you ask?"