"How happy you look, Greta!" he said, fixing his eyes upon her.
A new light brightened her sunny face. "Not happier than I feel," she answered. She swung the arm over which the bonnet hung; the heaving of her breast showed the mold of her early womanhood.
Hugh Ritson's mind had for the last half hour brooded over many a good purpose, but not one of them was now left.
"You witnessed a painful scene to-day," he said, with some hesitation. "Be sure it was no less painful to me because you were there to see it."
"Oh, I was so sorry," said Greta, impetuously. "You mean with your father?"
Hugh bent his head slightly. "It was inevitable—I know that full well—but for my share in it I ask your pardon."
"That is nothing," she said; "but you took your father too seriously."
"I took him at his word—that was all."
"But the dear old man meant nothing, and you meant very much. He only wanted to abuse you a little, and perhaps frighten you, and shake his stick at you, and then love you all the better for it."
"You may be right, Greta. Among the whims of nature there is that of making such human contradictions; but, as you say, I take things seriously—everything—life itself."