Her dark eyes were fixed curiously upon my face.  She seemed to be weighing something in her mind.  I had a fancy that when she spoke again it would be without that deliberation—­almost restraint—­which seemed to accord a little strangely with the girlishness of her appearance and actual years.  She stood on the extreme edge of the cliff, her slim straight figure outlined to angularity against the sky.  She remained so long without speech that I had time to note all these things.  The sunshine, breaking through the thin-topped pine trees, lay everywhere about us; a little brown feathered bird, scarcely a dozen yards away, sang to us so lustily that the soft feathers around his throat stood out like a ruff.  Down below the sea came rushing on to the shingles.

“Mr. Ducaine,” she said at last, “did my father make you any offer of employment this afternoon?”

It was a direct, almost a blunt question.  I was taken by surprise, but I answered her without hesitation.

“He made me no definite offer,” I said.  “At the same time he asked me a great many questions, for which he must have had some reason, and he gave me the idea that, subject to the approval of some others, he was thinking of me in connection with some post.”

“Colonel Ray was telling me,” she said, “how unfortunate you have been with your pupils.  I wonder—­don’t you think perhaps that you might get some others?”

“I have tried,” I answered.  “So far I have not been lucky.  At present, too, I scarcely see how I could expect to get any, for I have nowhere to put them.  I had to give up the lease of the Grange, and there is no house round here which I could afford to take.”

Some portion of her delicate assurance had certainly deserted her.  Her manner was almost nervous.

“If you could possibly find the pupils,” she said, hesitatingly, “I should like to ask you a favour.  The Manor Farm on the other side of the village is my own, and I should so like it occupied.  I would let it to you furnished for ten pounds a year.  There is a man and his wife living there now as caretakers.  They would be able to look after you.”

“You are very kind,” I said again, “but I am afraid that I could not take advantage of such an offer.”

“Why not?”

“I have no claim upon you or your father,” I answered.  “We are almost strangers, are we not?  I might accept and be grateful for employment, but this is charity.”

“A very conventional reply, Mr. Ducaine,” she remarked, with faint sarcasm.  “I gave you credit for a larger view of things.”

I found her still inexplicable.  She was evidently annoyed, and yet she did not seem to wish me to be.  There was a cloud upon her face and a nervousness in her manner which I wholly failed to understand.

“If I were to tell you,” she said, raising her eyes suddenly to mine, “that your acceptance of my offer would be a favour—­would put me under a real obligation to you?”