“That remark,” said Weston, “is quite warranted. I have only this to say. When I entered your house half an hour ago I hadn’t the faintest notion that I should permit my feelings to run away with me.”
“Then this thing has been going on for quite a time?”
Stirling’s tone was coldly even, but Weston did not like the question. The form of it rather jarred on him. He realized, however, that he was on his defense, and would probably have to put up with a good deal more than that.
“I have had a strong regard for Miss Stirling since I first met her in British Columbia,” he said. “That, however, is all I can admit. I do not know how she thought of me, and I have, at least, never knowingly, until this evening, spoken a word which could show her what my feelings were.”
“Oh,” said Stirling, “you’ve lived in the woods. If you hadn’t, you’d have found out by now that young women possess a certain faculty of putting things together. Anyway,” he added enigmatically, “I don’t know that the bush isn’t as good a place to raise a man in as the hothouse Susan Frisingham talked about.”
Weston gazed at him in some astonishment, but the contractor made a little gesture with his hand.
“Well,” he said, “you meant to keep the thing to yourself?”
“Until I had made the Grenfell Consolidated a success, when I should have come to you.”
“Quite the proper course,” commented Stirling. “It’s kind of a pity you didn’t stick to it. When you had arrived at that wise decision, why did you come here to talk to my daughter?”
It was a shrewd question, and perfectly warranted, but Weston answered it candidly.