“I wasn’t thinking quite that,” he said.  “But I’ll tell you what I was thinking, if you’ll promise not to be offended.”

She considered for a moment, then she said: 

“I do not think you will offend me.  What was it?”

“Well, I was thinking that—­see here, now, Miss Heron, I’ve got your promise!—­it is not worthy of you—­such work, I mean.”

“Because I’m a girl?” she said, her lip curving with a smile.

“No,” he said, gravely; “because you are a lady; because you are so—­so refined, so graceful, so”—­he dared not say “beautiful,” and consequently he floundered and broke down.  “If you were a farmer’s daughter, clumsy and rough and awkward, it would not seem to inappropriate for you to be herding cattle and counting sheep; but—­now your promise!—­when I come to think that ever since I met you, whenever I think of you I think of—­of—­a beautiful flower—­that now I have seen you in evening-dress, I realise how wrong it is that you should do such work.  Oh, dash it!  I know it’s like my cheek to talk to you like this,” he wound up, abruptly and desperately.

While he had been speaking, the effect of his words had expressed itself in her eyes and in the alternating colour and pallor of her face.  It was the first time in her life any man had told her that she was refined and graceful and flower-like; that she was, so to speak, wasting her sweetness on the desert air, and the speech was both pleasant and painful to her.  The long dark lashes swept her cheek; her lips set tightly to repress the quiver which threatened them; but when he had completely broken down, she raised her eyes to his with a look so grave, so sweet, so girlish, that Stafford’s heart leapt, not for the first time that morning, and there flashed through him the unexpected thought: 

“What would not a man give to have those eyes turned upon him with love shining in their depths!”

“I’m not offended,” she said.  “I know what you mean.  None of your lady-friends would do it because they are ladies.  I’m sorry.  But they are not placed as I am.  Do you think I could sit with my hands before me, or do fancy-work, while things went to ruin?  My father is old and feeble—­you saw him the other night—­I have no brother—­no one to help me, and—­so you see how it is!”

The eyes rested on his with a proud smile, as if she were challenging him, then she went on: 

“And it does not matter.  I live quite alone; I see no one, no other lady; there is no one to be ashamed of me.”

Stafford reddened.

“That’s rather a hard hit for me!” he said.  “Ashamed!  By Heaven! if you knew how I admired—­how amazed I am at your pluck and goodness—­”

Her eyes dropped before his glowing ones.

“And there is no need to pity me:  I am quite happy, quite; happier than I should be if I were playing the piano or paying visits all day.  It has quite left off now.”