Armathwaite looked into the girl's troubled face and saw there a fear, a foreboding, which were very real, if not to be accounted for readily.
"Kindly leave us," he said. "If I want Mrs. Jackson, or you, I'll call at the cottage."
There was an air of authority about Mr. Armathwaite that disconcerted Betty more than Walker's bluster. She went out and closed the front door. The agent ran and opened it again. The girl was standing on the path, clear of the porch, and gazing wistfully at the house.
"Will you mind your own business?" he grumbled. "The deuce take it, what's come to you to-day? You and your mother seem half crazy."
"We don't like folk to see the place at its worst," she said, rather defiantly.
"You're doing your best to turn Mr. Armathwaite against it, I should think," was the angry comment. "Now, don't touch this door again, and clear out, d'ye hear?"
Betty flushed. She was distressed, but dales' blood boils quickly when subjected to the fire of contumely.
"I haven't asked such a favor," she said. "And you might keep a civil tongue in your head."
Walker sniffed his annoyance. But why bandy words with this aggressive young woman? He swung on his heel.
"Sorry you should have met with such a queer reception, Mr. Armathwaite," he said. "I can't account for it. I really can't. Perhaps Mrs. Jackson feels hurt that I didn't let her know you were coming, but——"