“Yes, I thought you were. I suppose you went to meet him in the wood last night?”
“Alas, it is true! But do not judge me hastily! He is the most unexceptionable—the most—”
“If he is unexceptionable,” interrupted Pen, “why won’t your father tolerate him?”
“It is all wicked prejudice!” sighed Lydia. “My father quarrelled with his father, and they don’t speak.”
“Oh! What did they quarrel about?”
“About a piece of land,” said Lydia mournfully.
“It sounds very silly.”
“It is silly. Only they are perfectly serious about it, and they do not care a fig for our sufferings! We have been forced to this hateful expedient of meeting in secret. I should tell you that my betrothed is the soul of honour! Subterfuge is repugnant to him, but what can we do? We love each other!”
“Why don’t you run away?” suggested Pen practically.
Startled eyes leapt to hers. “Run where?”