"No," answered Ethel, "I come from Lancashire. My father was rector of a small parish on the moors."
Harry's heart smote him. It might have been Edith. What a little turn of chance had made all the difference! "My father was a parson too," he said, and then checked himself for the half-disrespectful word, "but he lived down here in Devonshire. Do you like Colyford?"
"Oh yes,—the place, very much. There are delightful rambles, and Lady Gladys and I go out sketching a great deal. And it's a delightful country for flowers."
The place, but not the life, thought Harry. Poor child, it must be very hard for her.
"Mr. Vardon, come on here, I want you," called out Gladys from the little stone bridge. "You know everything. Can you tell me what this flower is?" and she held out a long spray of waving green-stuff.
"Caper spurge," said Harry, looking at it carelessly.
"Oh no," Miss Martindale put in quickly, "Portland spurge, surely."
"So it is," Harry answered, looking closer. "Then you are a bit of a botanist, Miss Martindale?"
"Not a botanist, but very fond of the flowers."
"Miss Martindale's always picking lots of ugly things and bringing them home," said Gladys laughingly; "aren't you, dear?"