The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.

“Why should you mind?” she said, with almost childish innocence.  “You do not know me; we only met yesterday—­we are not friends—­Oh I am not forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!—­but what can it matter to you?”

In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such suspicion.

“I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much,” he retorted.  “In the first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next, we shall be neighbours—­I’m going to stay there—­” he nodded grimly at the beautiful “little place.”

“Neighbours?” she said, half absently.  “It is farther off than you think; and, besides, we know no one.  We have no neighbours in that sense—­or friends.  My father does not like to see anyone; we live quite alone—­”

“So I’ve heard—­” He stopped and bit his lip; but she did not seem to have noticed his interruption.

—­“So that even if my father did not object to the house or—­or—­”

“My father,” said Stafford with a smile.

A smile answered his candour.

“It would be all the same.  And why should it matter to you?  You have a great many friends, no doubt—­and we should not be likely to meet.”

“Oh, yes, we should!” he said, with the dogged kind of insistence which also sometimes surprised his friends.  “I was going to avail myself of your permission, and fish the stream—­but, of course, I can’t do that now.”

“No—­I suppose not,” she assented.  “But we should be sure to meet on the road—­I should be riding—­walking.”

“But not on this side often,” she argued.

A faint, very faint colour had stolen into the clear pallor of her cheek, her eyes were downcast.  She was honestly surprised, and, yes, a little pleased that he should protest against the close of their acquaintance; pleased, though why, she could not have told; for it did not seem to matter.

“Oh, yes, I should,” he retorted.  “It’s very pretty this side, and—­See here, Miss Heron.”  He drew a little nearer and looked up at her with something like a frown in his eagerness.  “Of course I shall speak to my father about—­well, about the way the land was bought, and I’m hoping, I’m sure, that he will be able to explain it satisfactorily; and I want to tell you that it is a mistake.  I don’t know much of my father, but I can’t believe that he would do anything underhand.”  He stopped suddenly as the bagman’s remarks flashed across his memory.  “If your father’s grievance against him is just, why—­ah, well, you’ll have to cut me when we meet; but I don’t think it is; and I don’t think it would be fair to treat me as if I’d done something wrong.”