"Was that so?" he laughed. "Oh, Lady Blanchflower had her veins of unreason. One had to know where to have her."
"She took Greeks for barbarians—my father used to say," said Delia, a little grimly. "But she was very good to me—and so I was fond of her." "And she of you. But there are still tales going about—do you mind?—of the dances you led her. It took weeks and months, they say, before you and she arrived at an armed truce—after a most appalling state of war! There's an old gardener here—retired now—who remembers you quite well. He told me yesterday that you used to be very friendly with him, and you said to him once—'I like Granny!—she's the master of me!'"
The laughter in Winnington's eyes again kindled hers.
"I was a handful—I know." There was a pause. Then she added—"And I'm afraid—I've gone on being a handful!" Gesture and tone showed that she spoke deliberately.
"Most people of spirit are—till they come to handle themselves," he replied, also with a slight change of tone.
"But that's just what women are never allowed to do, Mr. Winnington!" She turned suddenly red, and fronted him. "There's always some man, who claims to manage them and their affairs. We're always in leading-strings—nobody ever admits we're grown up. Why can't we be allowed like men—to stumble along our own way? If we make mistakes, let's pay for them! But let us at some time in our lives—at least—feel ourselves free beings!"
There was no mistaking the purport of these words. They referred clearly to her father's will, and her own position. After a moment's thought, Winnington bent forward.
"I think I understand what you mean," he said gravely. "And I sympathise with it more than you imagine."
Delia looked up impetuously—
"Then why, Mr. Winnington, did you consent to be my guardian?"