"Does Mr. Armathwaite mean to have the grounds attended to?"
"Looks like it, sir. He an' Miss Meg are measurin' bits, an' Smith's stickin' in pieces of wood. It'll be nice to have the place kept spick an' span again."
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Meg's glimpse of her friend from the bedroom window should have brought her downstairs pell-mell without even a tap on Whittaker's door to inquire as to his well-being. It was perhaps, equally unfortunate that, when she remembered her remissness, she should have hurried to his room while her cheeks were flushed with the strong moorland air and her eyes shining with excitement.
"How are you, Percy dear?" she said, entering in response to his surly "Come in!" "I ought to have looked in on you sooner, but I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Mr. Armathwaite in the garden with Smith, our own old gardener, whom I've known ever since I was a baby."
"Why has Armathwaite brought Smith here?" said Whittaker, peering at her fixedly, yet veiling those gray-green eyes under lowered lids.
"He didn't. Smith just came. But isn't it fortunate? He couldn't have found a better man, especially as Smith won't have any of the hard work on his hands. Mr. Armathwaite is giving him all the help he needs."
"To put the place in order?"
"Yes, of course. Smith promises marvels by to-morrow evening. But you haven't told me yet how your poor ankle feels."
"Never mind my poor ankle, Meg. I understood that the house was only let for three months?"
"Oh, much longer, I believe. Mr. Armathwaite——