"Unable to come—is he ill?" pursued the girl, without moving.
"Oh, no," explained Palmerston hastily; "he is quite well. It was something else—some matter of business."
"Business!" repeated the young woman, with ineffable scorn.
She turned and walked rapidly toward the buggy. Palmerston followed with her satchel. She gave him a preoccupied "Thank you" as he assisted her to a seat and shielded her dress with the shabby robe.
"Do you know anything about this business of my father's?" she asked as they drove away.
"Very little; it is between him and Mr. Dysart, with whom I am boarding. Mr. Dysart has mentioned it to me." The young man spoke with evident reluctance. His companion turned her clear, untrammeled gaze upon him.
"You needn't be afraid to say what you think. Of course it is all nonsense," she said bitterly.
Palmerston colored under her intent gaze, and smiled faintly.
"I have said what I think to Mr. Dysart. Don't you really mean that I need not be afraid to say what you think?"
She was still looking at him, or rather at the place where he was. She turned a little more when he spoke, and regarded him as if he had suddenly materialized.