"Magnificently. You weren't there?"
"No. Undershaw put down his foot. I shan't submit much longer!"
"You're really getting strong?"
Her kind eyes considered him. He had often marveled that one so young should be mistress of such a look—so softly frank and unafraid.
"A Hercules! Besides, the work's so interesting, one's no time to think of one's game leg!"
"You're getting to know the estate?"
"I've been motoring about it for a fortnight, that's something for a beginning. And I've got plenty of things to tell you."
He plunged into them. It was evident that he was resuming topics familiar to them both. Their talk indeed showed them already intimate, sharers in a common enterprise, where she was often inspiration, and he executive and practical force. Ever since, indeed, she had said to him with that kindled, eager look—"Accept! Accept!"—he had been sharply aware of how best to approach, to attract her. She was, it seemed, no mere passive girl. She was in her measure a thinker—a character. He perceived in her—deep down—enthusiasms and compassions, that seemed often as though they shook her beyond her strength. They made him uncomfortable; they were strange to his own mind; and yet they moved and influenced him. During the short time, for instance, that she had lived in their midst, she had made friends everywhere—so he discovered—among these Cumbria folk. She never harangued about them; a few words, a few looks, burning from an inward fire—these expressed her: as when, twice, he had met her at dusk, with the aspect of a wounded spirit, coming out of hovels that he himself must now be ashamed of, since they were Melrose's hovels.
"I've just come from Mainstairs," he said to her abruptly, as the house in front drew nearer.
The colour rushed into Lydia's cheeks.