"Well, I just know it. You do things—so cleanly—with your hands. One can always tell a bungler."
The milking was at an end, and Nance lifted the pail aside, and set the stool in a corner.
"Let me carry the pail for you?"
"It is quite light. Would you like to see my new garden?"
"I should."
"I must carry this in, and see to the fire. You must stay and take breakfast with us."
"That's good of you."
"Go round to the terrace. I'll join you there soon."
Nance ran up to her room, slipped into a simple white gown flowered with pink roses, and did her hair, drawing it back in two black waves from her forehead. Then she went to her father's room, and knocked, the gay mood of the moment overshadowed suddenly by the memory of the night when she had heard the voice of the stranger in that room. The incident might have proved utterly trivial, and Nance had waited for something to explain it. She had held her tongue, and asked no questions, but Anthony Durrell had offered her no confidences. His silence troubled Nance. It seemed that there might be something in his life that he did not desire her to know.
"Father——"