"Whatever for?" asked Mistress Waynflete.
Master Freake said nothing, but his eyes were troubled, and I knew there was something he would fain conceal.
"Whatever for?" she repeated. "Could you learn of no reason?"
"I was told," he answered slowly, "that Colonel Waynflete's knowledge and assistance would be invaluable to the royal troops."
"Told that my father had turned traitor! Is that what you mean, sir?" Scorn too great for anger covered her face, veiling its sweetness as with a fiery cloud.
"That is the plain English of what I was told, I must admit." Here was the grave, businesslike nature of the man, plainly posing awkward questions that had to be answered.
"It's a wicked lie!" she burst out. She turned her face proudly to look into mine, and I saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Naturally, madam," said I.
"My father's honour is mine, Master Wheatman, and I am your debtor for another splendid courtesy."
"I argue from the flower to the tree. Man's logic, and therefore necessarily imperfect, you would say, but for once I stick to it." I spoke lightly and reminiscently, so as to chase the gloom from her mind, and she was immediately herself again.