She hesitated. “Well,” she answered, more slowly, “to be perfectly frank—I presume that is what you want me to be—I think Mother blames you somewhat. She is not well, Mr. Paine, and this Lane of yours is her pet bugbear just now. She—like the rest of us—cannot understand why you will not sell, and, because you will not, she is rather—rather—”
“I see. I'm not sure that I blame her. I presume she has blamed me for these outrageous disturbances in the Lane such as you have just witnessed.”
She hesitated again. “Why yes,” she said, more slowly still; “a little, I think. She is not well, as I said, and she may have thought you were, if not instigating them, at least aware of what was going on. But I am sure father does not think so.”
“But you, Miss Colton; did you believe me responsible for them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, from what I have seen of you, you did not seem to me like that kind of a man. You kept your temper that day in the boat, though you had a good reason for losing it. All this,” with a gesture toward the Lane, “the shouting and noise and petty insults, was so little and mean and common. I did not believe you would permit it, if you knew. And, from what I have learned about you, I was sure you would not.”
“From what you learned about me? From your father?”
“No.”
“Then from whom, pray?”