“I have been abroad,” Wingrave answered. “I am not fond of England.” “You had trouble here, I know,” she said frankly. “But that is all past and over. I think that you must forget how beautiful your home is or you would never bear to live away from it. Now, please, may I ask you a question?” “Any that you think necessary,” Wingrave answered. “Spare me as much as possible; I am not fond of them.” “Shall I leave you two together for a little time?” Mr. Pengarth suggested, gathering up some papers. “Certainly not,” Wingrave said shortly. “There is not the slightest necessity for it.” Mr. Pengarth resumed his seat. “Just as you please,” he answered. “But you must sit down, Juliet. There, you shall have my clients’ chair.” The girl accepted it with a little laugh. There was no shadow of embarrassment about her manner, notwithstanding the cold stiffness of Wingrave’s deportment. He sat where the sunlight fell across his chair, and the lines in his pale face seemed deeper than usual, the grey hairs more plentiful, the weariness in his eyes more apparent. Yet she was not in the least afraid of him. “First of all, then, Sir Wingrave, may I ask you why you have been so extraordinarily kind to me?” “There is nothing extraordinary about it at all,” he answered. “Your father died and left you friendless in a parish of which I am Lord of the Manor. He received a starvation pittance for his labors, which it was my duty to augment, a duty which, with many others, I neglected. I simply gave orders that you should be looked after.” She laughed softly. “Looked after! Why, I have lived at Tredowen. I have had a governess, a pony to drive. Heaven knows how many luxuries!” “That,” he interrupted hastily, “is nothing. The house is better occupied. What I have done for you is less in proportion than the sixpence you may sometimes have given to a beggar for I am a rich, a ridiculously rich man, with no possible chance of spending one-quarter of my income. You had a distinct and obvious claim upon me, and, at no cost or inconvenience to myself, I have endeavored, through others, to recognize it.” “I will accept your view of the situation,” the girl said, still smiling, but with a faint note of disappointment in her tone. “I do not wish to force upon you expressions of gratitude which you would only find wearisome. But I must thank you! It is in my heart, and I must speak of it. There, it is over, you see! I shall say no more.” “You are a sensible young lady,” Wingrave said, making a motion as though to rise. “I have only one request to make to you, and that is that you keep to yourself the knowledge which Mr. Pengarth informs me that you insisted upon acquiring. You are nearly enough of age now, and I will make you your own mistress. That is all, I think.” The smile died away from her lips. Her tone became very earnest.