"Chattaway rode by an hour ago when I was outside looking after Jim Sanders. He stopped his horse and asked how we came to give Rupert a bed last night, when we knew that it would displease him. Like his insolence!"
"What answer did you make?" said George, after a pause.
"I gave him one," replied Nora, significantly. "Chattaway needn't fear not getting an answer when he comes to me. He knows that."
"But what did you say about Rupert?"
"I said that he had not slept here. If Chattaway——"
Nora was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Chattaway's daughter, Octave. She had come to the farm, and, attracted by the sound of voices in the dairy, made her way to it. Miss Chattaway had taken it into her head lately to be friendly, to honour the farm with frequent visits. Mrs. Ryle neither encouraged nor repulsed her. She was civilly indifferent: but the young lady chose to take that as a welcome. Nora did not show her much greater favour than she was in the habit of showing her father. She bent her head over her butter-board, as if unaware that any one had entered.
George removed his hat which he had been wearing, as she stepped on to the cold floor of the dairy, and took the hand held out to him.
"Who would have thought of seeing you at home at this hour?" she exclaimed, in the winning manner which she could put on at times, and always did put on for George Ryle.
"And in Nora's dairy, watching her make up the butter!" he answered, laughing. "The fact is, I have an appointment with a gentleman this morning, and he is keeping me waiting, and making me angry. I can't spare the time."
"You look angry!" exclaimed Octave, laughing at him.