"She's more gracious with either of them than with me," he reflected. "Why, actually, when I offered as usual to walk home with her last week, she said yonder man had promised to do so and she need not trouble me!" As he spoke he lifted his eyes where a farm showed on the hills westerly through the trees. Coldstone was a prosperous place, and the freehold of a prosperous man, young Waite, the Turkish Knight of the play. He had seen Cora home according to her wish, and Mark had kept his temper and afterwards made the present appointment by letter. Now Cora came to him, late from another interview--but concerning it she said nothing. On her way from Undershaugh it happened that she had fallen in with Mark's father. The old man rode his pony, and Cora was passing him hastily when he stopped and called her to him. They had not met since the occasion of the girl's first and last visit to Hawk House. "Come hither," he said. "I've fretted you, it seems, and set you against me. I'm sorry for that. You should be made of stouter stuff. Shake hands with me, Cora, please." He held out his hand and she took it silently. "I'll turn and go a bit of your road. If you intend to marry my son, you must make shift to be my daughter, you see. What was it made you so cross that you ran away? But I know--I spoke against your clothes." "You spoke against everything. I felt in every drop of blood in my body that you didn't like me. That's why I had to run." He was silent a moment. Suddenly he pointed to one faint gold torch above their heads, where a single bough of an elm was autumn-painted, and began to glow on the bosom of a tree still green. It stood out shining against the deep summer darkness of the foliage. "What d'you make of that?" he asked. She looked up. "'Tis winter coming again, I suppose." "Yes--winter for us, death for the leaves. I'm like that--I'm frost-bitten here and there--in places. 'Twas a frosty day with me when you came to dinner. I'm sorry I hurt you. But you must be sensible. It's a lot harder to be a good wife than a popular maiden. My son Mark will need a strong-minded woman, not a silly one. The question is, are you going to rise to it? However, we'll leave that. How did you know in every drop of your blood, as you say, that you'd failed to please me?" "I knew it by--oh, by everything. By your eyes and by the tone of your voice. You said you wanted to talk to me." "Well, I did." "You never asked me nothing." "There was no need, you told me everything." "I said nought, I'm sure." "You said all I wanted to hear and told me a lot more than I wanted, or expected, to hear for that matter." "I'm sure I don't understand you, Mr. Baskerville." "No need--no need. That's only to say you're like the rest. They wonder how 'tis they don't understand me--fools that they are!--and yet how many understand themselves? I'll tell you this: you're not the right wife for Mark."