"I've met him." Carstairs' face was like a carven stone.
"Ah! She was the daughter of a yeoman farmer in Oxfordshire, rather well to do, but of course I couldn't marry her—then; the boy—is he any good?"
"He's very clever."
"He would be that, of course."
"Your daughter knows him."
"Does she? I don't know who she knows. You must marry her. She mustn't—mustn't know."
The old man sank back on his pillows and closed his eyes. Carstairs watched him for a minute or so, then turned and looked interrogatively at the woman. "Asleep?" he asked, quietly.
She nodded. "Resting," she answered, and Carstairs made his way very quietly out of the caravan.
"I'll come again to-morrow," he said.