“Ye-es,” said Stafford, “Rather—­conspicuous, though, isn’t it?”

She laughed suddenly, and Stafford asked, with surprise:  “Why did you laugh?”

“Oh, I was thinking of my father,” she said, with a delicious frankness; “he was quite angry about it this morning.  It seems that it is built on our land—­or what was ours—­and he dislikes the idea of anyone building at Bryndermere.”

“So should I,” said Stafford, laconically.

“And besides,” she went on, her eyes fixed on the great white building, so that she did not see his embarrassment, “my father does not like the man who built it.  He thinks that he got the land unfairly; and he—­my father—­calls him all sorts of hard names.”

Stafford bit his lips, and his face wore the expression which came into it when he was facing an ugly jump.  He would have shirked this one if he could, but it had to be faced, so he rushed it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “My father built it.”

She did not start, but she turned her head and looked at him, with a sudden coldness in the glorious eyes.

“Your father—­Sir Stephen Orme?  Then you are—­”

“I am his son, yes; my name is Stafford Orme.”

She gathered her reins up, as if no comment, no remark were necessary, but Stafford could not let her go, could not part from her like that.

“I’m sorry to hear that Mr. Heron has some cause of complaint, some grievance against my father.  I can understand his not liking the house; to tell you the truth, I don’t care for it much myself.  Yes; I can understand Mr. Heron’s annoyance; I suppose he can see it from your house?”

“No,” she said, simply.  “This is the only part of our land from which it can be seen, and my father never comes here:  never leaves the grounds, the garden.”  She paused a moment.  “I don’t know why you should mind—­except that I said that the land was got unfairly—­I wish I had not said that.”

Stafford coloured.

“So do I,” he said; “but I hope it isn’t true.  There may be some mistake.  I don’t know anything about my father’s affairs—­I haven’t seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him.”

She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.  His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again surprised even his most intimate friends.

“Miss Heron, I’m afraid—­” He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast and fixed on the horse’s ears.

“I scarcely know how to put what I want to say,” he said.  “I’m rather bad at explaining myself; but I—­well, I hope you won’t feel angry with me because of the house, because of anything that has passed between your father and mine—­Of course I stand by him; but—­well, I didn’t build the confounded place—­I beg your pardon! but I think it’s rather hard that you should cut me—­oh, I can see by your face that you mean to do it!—­that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because—­”