"I pray you—stay!"
He turned and regarded her.
"Stay," said she, with her face afire. "I—I will tell you what I know of him—if you will have it so."
He approached her with seeming reluctance, and with anger and suspicion in his lowering look. He was silent, too.
"Indeed, there is no harm," said she (and still with her face showing her mortification that she was thus forced to defend herself). "'Tis a young gentleman that is in some trouble—his lodging near Bidford is also a hiding, as it were—and—and I know but little of him beyond his name, and that he is familiar with many of my father's friends in London."
"And how comes it that you seek him out here alone?" said he. "That is a becoming and maidenly thing!"
"I promised you I would tell you what I know of the young gentleman," said she, with scornful lips. "I did not promise to stand still and suffer your insolence."
"Insolence!" he exclaimed, as if her audacity bewildered him.
"How know you that I sought him out?" she said, indignantly. "May not one walk forth of a summer morning without being followed by suspicious eyes—I warrant me, eyes that are only too glad to suspect! To think evil is an easy thing, it seems, with many; I wonder, sir, you are not ashamed."
"You brave it out well," said he, sullenly; but it was evident that her courage had impressed him, if it still left him angered and suspicious.