Farquhar held his peace and followed her into another low room, littered with more books and with Miss Fane’s somewhat masculine appurtenances—a pair of dogskin gloves, a hard felt hat, and a riding-whip among them. Armorial bearings were carved upon the lintel and traced again in silver upon the uprights of the andirons, across which logs were lying, in primitive style. The girl went first to the fire and stooped to warm her hands before she confronted him.
“Have you been talking to my father?”
“Am I speaking to Miss Fane?”
“Of course; why do you ask such a question as that?”
“Because I really was not sure; I thought you were younger.”
“Most people know us by sight, though we are too wicked to be received,” returned Miss Fane, indifferently. “I don’t know whether you mistook me for a servant. However, that doesn’t matter; have you been speaking to my father?”
“I came by appointment on a business matter, Miss Fane.”
“About those cottages at Burnt House. You should have written to my brother Bernard; he manages the farm, and he is reasonable to deal with. Does my father mean to raise the rents?”
“He said such was his intention, but I hope he will think better of it.”
“Oh no, he won’t. Are you going to acquiesce, and let your protégés be evicted?”