“I am sorry to have missed her. Thank you, Captain Coppinger, for telling me.”
“Stay!” he roared, as he observed her draw back into the porch. “You are not going yet!”
“I cannot stay for more than a moment in which to ask how you do, and whether you are somewhat better? I was sorry to hear you had been worse.”
“I have been worse, yes. Come in. You shall not go. I am mewed in as a prisoner, and have none to speak to, and no one to look at but old Dunes. Come in, and take that stool by the fire, and let me hear you speak, and let me rest my eyes a while on your golden hair—gold more golden than that of the Indies.”
“I hope you are better, sir,” said Judith, ignoring the compliment.
“I am better now I have seen you. I shall be worse if you do not come in.”
She refused to do this by a light shake of the head.
“I suppose you are afraid. We are wild and lawless men here, ogres that eat children! Come, child, I have something to show you.”
“Thank you for your kindness; but I must run to the parsonage; I really must see my aunt.”
“Then I will send her to Polzeath to you when she returns. She will keep; she’s stale enough.”