“Pray let me persuade you to come to the house,” he said urgently. “You are being drenched. It is absolutely dreadful to see anybody out in such rain—and there is no other shelter within reach. Let me take you there. My housekeeper will dry your hat and jacket for you. I ought to introduce myself, perhaps. I am Lord Lostwithiel.”
She had guessed as much. Who else would speak with authority in that place? She dimly recalled a photograph, pale and faded, of a tall man in a yeomanry uniform, seen in somebody’s album; and the face of the photograph had been the same elongated oval face—with long thin nose, and dark eyes a shade too near together—which was looking down at her now.
She felt it would be churlish to refuse shelter so earnestly offered.
“You are very kind,” she faltered. “I am sorry to be so troublesome. I ought not to have come so far in such doubtful weather.”
She went with him meekly, walking her fastest under the pelting rain, which was at her back now as they made for the house.
“Have you really come far?” he asked.
“From Trelasco. I live at the Angler’s Nest, a cottage by the river. You know it, perhaps?”
“Yes. I know every house at Trelasco. Then you are staying with Mrs. Disney, I presume?”
“I am Mrs. Disney.”
“You?”—with intense surprise. “I beg your pardon. You are so young. I imagined Mrs. Disney an older person.”