She turned to go by him. "No, dear, wait a moment." He held her arm.
"Please, let me go. When John first came, you said he was a prig—and if he would just do some boy-mischief and kick up his heels like a two-year-old with some fun in him—you said he was a sort of girl-boy—" There were for punctuation sobs and silences.
"And where did you get all this about a prig?" he broke in, amazed.
"Oh, I heard you tell Aunt Ann. And now," said Portia, "the first time he does a real nice jolly piece of mischief you come down on him like—like a thousand of bricks." Her slang was reserved for the Squire, as he well knew.
The blue eyes shining with tears looked up from under the glorious disorder of the mass of hair. It was too much for the man.
"How darned logical you are!" He acknowledged some consciousness of having been inconsistent. He had said one thing and done another. "You are worse than your aunt." Then Leila knew that Ann Penhallow had talked to the Squire. "Well," he said, "what's your opinion, Miss Grey?"
"I think you're distanced."
"What—what! Wait a little. You may tell that young man to ride when he pleases and to swim, and to tell those scamps it's too hot to deprive them of the use of the pool. There, now get out!"
"But—Uncle Jim—I—can't. Oh, I really can't. You've got to do it yourself." This he much disliked to do.
"I hear your aunt calling. Mr. Rivers is going."