“Well, I haven’t been here very long, you see,” Aynesworth explained.

Wingrave spoke for the first time.  His eyes were fixed upon the child, and Aynesworth could see that she shrank from his cold, unsympathetic scrutiny.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Juliet Lundy,” she answered.

“How long was your father organist at the church?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.  “Ever since I was born, and before.”

“And how old are you?”

“Fourteen next birthday.”

“And all that time,” he asked, “has there been no one living at Tredowen?”

“No one except Mrs. Tresfarwin,” she answered.  “It belongs to a very rich man who is in prison.”

Wingrave’s face was immovable.  He stood on one side, however, and turned towards his companion.

“We are keeping this young lady,” he remarked, “from what seems to be her daily pilgrimage.  I wonder whether it is really the pictures, or Mrs. Tresfarwin’s cakes?”

She turned her shoulder upon him in silent scorn, and looked at Aynesworth a little wistfully.

“Goodbye!” she said.

He waved his hand as he strolled after Wingrave.

“There you are, Mr. Lord of the Manor,” he said.  “You can’t refuse to do something for the child.  Her father was organist at your own church, and a hard struggle he must have had of it, with an absentee landlord, and a congregation of seagulls, I should think.”

“Are you joking?” Wingrave asked coldly.

“I was never more in earnest in my life,” Aynesworth answered.  “The girl is come from gentlefolks.  Did you see what a delicate face she had, and how nicely she spoke?  You wouldn’t have her sent out as a servant, would you?”

Wingrave looked at his companion ominously.

“You have a strange idea of the duties of a landlord,” he remarked.  “Do you seriously suppose that I am responsible for the future of every brat who grows up on this estate?”

“Of course not!” Aynesworth answered.  “You must own for yourself that this case is exceptional.  Let us go down to the Vicarage and inquire about it.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Wingrave answered.  “Nor will you!  Do you see the spray coming over the cliffs there?  The sea must be worth watching.”

Aynesworth walked by his side in silence.  He dared not trust himself to speak.  Wingrave climbed with long, rapid strides to the summit of the headland, and stood there with his face turned seawards.  The long breakers were sweeping in from the Atlantic with a low, insistent roar; as far as the eye could reach the waves were crusted with white foam.  Every now and then the spray fell around the two men in a little dazzling shower; the very atmosphere was salt.  About their heads the seagulls whirled and shrieked.  From the pebbled beach to the horizon there was nothing to break the monotony of that empty waste of waters.