Faversham, leaning on his stick, made his way through the tiny hall of the cottage, and the drawing-room door was thrown open for him.  A young lady was sitting at the farther end, who rose with a slight cry of astonishment.  It was Lydia.

Through her reception of him Faversham soon learnt what are the privileges of the wounded, and how glad are all good women of excuses to be kind.  Lydia placed him in the best chair, in front of the best view, ordered tea, and hovered round him with an eager benevolence.  Her mother, she said, would be in directly.  Faversham, on his side, could only secretly hope that Mrs. Penfold’s walk might be prolonged.

They were not interrupted.  Lydia, with concern, conjectured that Mrs. Penfold and Susan had gone to visit a couple of maiden ladies, living half a mile off along the road.  But she showed not the smallest awkwardness in entertaining her guest.  The rain of the morning had left the air chilly, and a wood fire burnt on the hearth.  Its pleasant flame gave an added touch of intimity to the little drawing-room, with its wild flowers, its books, its water-colours, and its modest furnishings.  After the long struggle of his illness, and the excitement of the morning, Faversham was both soothed and charmed.  His whole nature relaxed; happiness flowed in.  Presently, on an impulse he could not resist, he told her of the offer which had been made to him.

Lydia’s embroidery dropped on her lap.

“Mr. Melrose’s agent!” she repeated, in wonder.  “He has offered you that?”

“He has—­on most generous terms.  Shall I take it?”

She flushed a little, for the ardent deference in his eyes was not easy to ignore.  But she examined his news seriously—­kindling over it.

“His agent—­agent for his miserable, neglected property!  Heavens, what a chance!”

She looked at him, her soul in her face.  Something warned him to be cautious.

“You think it so neglected?”

“I know it:  but ask Lord Tatham!  He’s chairman of some committee or other—­he’ll tell you.”

“But perhaps I shall have to fight Tatham?  Suppose that turns out to be my chief business?”

“Oh, no, you can’t—­you can’t!  He’s too splendid—­in all those things.”

“He is of course the model youth,” said Faversham dryly.

“Ah, but you can’t hate him either!” cried Lydia, divining at once the shade of depreciation.  “He is the kindest, dearest fellow!  I agree—­it’s provoking not to be able to sniff at him—­such a Prince Charming—­with all the world at his feet.  But one can’t—­one really can’t!”

Jealousy sprang up sharply in Faversham, though a wider experience of the sex might have suggested to him that women do not generally shower public praise on the men they love.  Lydia, however, quickly left the subject, and returned to his own affairs.  Nothing, he confessed, could have been friendlier or sincerer than her interest in them.  They plunged into the subject of the estate; and Faversham stood amazed at her knowledge of the dales-folk, their lives and their grievances.  At the end, he drew a long breath.