"Is Leyburn the station on the other side of the moor?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will remain here three weary months, Meg."
"I don't pretend to understand," she cried wrathfully.
"I've paid three months' rent, and here I shall stay if a regiment of girls and a whole army of Percy Whittakers try to eject me. As I am equally resolved not to allow you to cross the moor unaccompanied, you will readily perceive the only logical outcome of your own decision."
The brown eyes lost their fire, but acquired another sort of sheen.
"What has happened that you should speak so unkindly?" she quavered. "Last night and this morning you—you—didn't order me out. And I don't see why you should drag in Percy Whittaker. I only borrowed his togs."
Many times in the history of this gray old world have woman's tears pierced armor and sapped fortresses. This hapless man yielded at once.
"Confound it, Miss Ogilvey, I'd keep you here during the remainder of my days if I could arrange matters to my own liking and yours," he blurted out.
She recovered her self-possession with amazing readiness.