He was about to ask her to account for her presence, but she interrupted him sharply. "And how dared you call me by my Christian name just now? I don't think I have allowed you that privilege!" She did not speak as though she were annoyed. In spite of the sharpness of her tone there was a curious laughing light in her eyes, a half-mocking expression, which Mostyn could not understand, though he felt that he was blushing scarlet, and was proportionately angry with himself. Why should he have called her Rada? Why had he, ever since that day upon the coach, thought of her by that name? The word had escaped him involuntarily, and no doubt the girl had every right to be indignant. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I must apologise for that. It was in the surprise of the moment----" "I see." Her eyes were still sparkling, and she was palpably enjoying Mostyn's discomfiture as well as the whole situation. She stretched out her hand, a daintily-fashioned hand with small, cool fingers. "I'll forgive you, Mr. Clithero, and I suppose it is I who must humbly ask your pardon for my intrusion. Awfully unconventional, isn't it? But I'm not a lady burglar come after the silver--there is none, by the way--or anything of that sort. I'm quite a commonplace little person, really." Mostyn took the girl's hand in his and held it, perhaps a little longer than he needed. "You're not commonplace," he faltered awkwardly; "you're anything but that. You're more like a sprite or a pixie." It was curious how she attracted him, and yet he was quite sure she was mocking him all the time, laughing at him in her heart. He would have liked to have refused her hand, to have spoken formally, to have shown her that he was not the sort of man to be made mock of: and yet all these impulses were put aside by that extraordinary fascination which she had over him, and for which he could not account, the fascination which had made him think of her so often during the last week, and which had brought her Christian name to his lips in the first moment of surprise. He was sure that he hated her--and yet he had held her hand longer than he need have done, and perhaps with firmer grip than was necessary. The worst of it was that Rada seemed to understand this, to have the knowledge of her power: she would only laugh at him all the more. "Call me a mischievous imp," she retorted, brushing back the recalcitrant curl, "if that's what you mean. Don't be shy, Mr. Clithero. After that I'll explain why I'm here, and then go." Of course she must go. What else could be suggested? That is what Mostyn thought, yet when he came to speak he gave expression to a very different sentiment. "I--I'm sure I don't know why you are here, Miss Armitage," he faltered; "but if you really meant to stay--well, I can clear out, you know, for to-night anyway. I believe there's an inn at Partinborough."