She spoke with spirit and dignity. But he laughed again and shook his head.
"My reward, you see, is just not to be paid. My fee is your presence—in this wood—your little word of thanks—and the hand you give me—on the bargain!"
They had reached the gate, and he held out his hand. Delia had flushed violently, but she yielded her own. He pressed it lingeringly, as she had foreseen, then released it and opened the gate for her.
"Good-bye then. A word commands me—when you wish. We keep watch—and each informs the other—barring accidents. That is, I think, the bargain."
She murmured assent, and they parted. Half way back towards his own cottage, Lathrop paused at a spot where the trees were thin, and the slopes of the valley below could be clearly seen. He could still make out her figure nearing the first houses of the village.
"I think she hates me. Never mind! I command her, and meet me she must—when I please to summon her. There is some sweetness in that—and in teasing the stupid fellow who no doubt will own her some day."
And he thought exultantly of Winnington's letter to him, and his own insolent reply. It had been a perfectly civil letter—and a perfectly proper thing for a guardian to do. But—for the moment—
"I have the whip hand—and it amuses me to keep it,—Now then for
Blaydes!"
For there, in the doorway of the cottage, stood the young journalist, waiting and smoking. He was evidently in good humour.
"Well? She came?"