‘It is to ask a question,’ he went on, ‘and there must be confidence between us. You have saved me from an act of madness! What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Father is very well off, and we don’t want anything.’
‘But there must be some service I can render, some kindness, some votive offering which I could make, and so imprint on your memory as long as you live that I am not an ungrateful man?’
‘Why should you be grateful to me, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘Some things are best left unspoken. Now think. What would you like to have best in the world?’
Margery made a pretence of reflecting—then fell to reflecting seriously; but the negative was ultimately as undisturbed as ever: she could not decide on anything she would like best in the world; it was too difficult, too sudden.
‘Very well—don’t hurry yourself. Think it over all day. I ride this afternoon. You live—where?’
‘Silverthorn Dairy-house.’