He stared morosely into the fire. And she watched him, her long lashes veiling a sly and impish amusement. If he dreamed that she loved him, if he fancied her a victim of his bow and spear, he strangely, most strangely, misread her. And a sudden turn, a single quick glance should have informed him. For as the flames by turns lit her face and left it to darkness, they wrought it to many expressions; but never to kindness.
“There’s many I’d like to see brought down a piece,” he muttered at last. “Many, many. And I’m as fond of my share of good things as most. But it’s all talk, there’s nought to be done! Nor ever will be! There have been parsons and squires from the beginning.”
“Would you do it,” she asked softly, “if there were anything to be done?”
“Try me.”
“I doubt it. And that’s why you are no lad for me.”
He rose to his feet in a temper at that. He turned his back on the fire.
“What’s the use of getting on this every time!” he cried. And he took up his hat. “I’m weary of it. I’m off. I don’t know that I shall come back again. What’s the use?” with a side-long glance at her dark, handsome face and curving figure which the firelight threw into prominence.
“If there were anything to do,” she asked, as if he had never spoken, never answered the question, “would you do it?” And she smiled at him, her head thrown back, her red lips parted, her eyes tempting.
“You know I would if——” He paused.
“There were some one to be won by it?”