Horatia was unusually quiet, for her, that afternoon, and the moment Mr Clay appeared at the door she started up to him to tell him how much they were enjoying themselves, for she wished to show him attention, and to show him, too, that she had not meant to criticise him that afternoon.
CHAPTER XIII.
HORATIA'S INFLUENCE.
The millionaire did not look very prepossessing as he stood near the door, his tall, powerful form towering above the young skaters; his coarse, red face darkened by a scowl.
'There's an ugly-looking brute just come into the rink,' young George Cunningham had said to Horatia, who had replied, 'That's Mr Mark Clay,' and had made straight for her host, dodging the skaters very cleverly.
Sarah, on the other hand, who had been near the door when her father appeared, gave one glance at his ill-tempered face, and skated in the opposite direction. She thought that he had not seen her. Not that it would have made any difference, for his family were wont to avoid their head when he was what his wife called 'put out about something'—which, alas! was only too frequently the case.
Not so Horatia. She saw the danger-signals, but was no more afraid of him than she would have been of a fly, to use her own expression. 'We are enjoying ourselves so much! It was a brilliant idea of yours,' she said, beaming at him and giving his arm an approving pat.
Mark Clay looked down at the eager little, freckled face, with its snub-nose; and, in spite of himself, he smiled back at her. 'I'm glad you are enjoying yourself. I did it for that. You must come and spend your winter holiday with us. It'll be a more seasonable pastime then, it seems to me,' he replied.
'But are you going to keep this as a rink? I thought you used it as a barn in the autumn and winter?' inquired Horatia.