"I've been behaving like a boor, haven't I?" he admitted. "Forgive me. And can't we be friends? After all, I've some sort of claim. I pulled you out of Lac Léman--or rather, prevented your tumbling into it, you know." He spoke with a curious persuasive charm. There was something almost boyishly disarming about his manner. It was as though for a moment a prickly, ungracious husk had dropped away, revealing the real man within. He held out his hand, and as Ann laid hers within it she felt her spirits rising unaccountably. "I hope you'll like it here," he pursued. He glanced round with a discontented expression. "Does the cottage furniture satisfy you? Is it what you like?" "It's perfectly charming," she replied whole-heartedly. "I love old-fashioned things." "Well, if there's anything you'd like altered or want sending down, you must let me know. There are stacks of stuff up at Heronsmere." "You've already sent down the one thing to complete my happiness," she answered, smiling. "That jolly little pony." "Oh, Dick Turpin. Do you like him?" "Is that his name? Yes, I like him immensely. Thank you so much for sending him." She paused, then added rather shyly: "I always seem to be thanking you for something, don't I? First for rescuing my bag at the Kursaal, then for rescuing me, and now for Dick Turpin!" "You can't do without a cob"--briefly. "Do you ride?" She nodded. "Yes. I thought of riding him sometimes. Does he ride all right?" "Oh, he's quiet enough. But if you want to hunt next winter, you must let me mount you." His glance rested on her slim, boyish contours. "I've a little thoroughbred mare up at Heronsmere--Redwing, she's called--who would carry you perfectly." "Oh, I couldn't--you mustn't--" she began with some embarrassment. "Nonsense!" He interrupted her brusquely. "What are you going to do down here if you don't ride and drive? Lovell will have his work. But you won't." "I'm proposing to keep chickens," announced Ann. "I'm not in the least an idle person. You lose the habit if you've earned your own living for several years," she added, with a touch of amusement. "Have you done that?" She assented. "Of course I have. You can't live on air, you know, and as my father didn't leave us much else, Robin and I both had to work." He regarded her with brooding eyes. She was so gay and cheery about it all that, against his will, his thoughts were driven back amongst old memories, recalling another woman he had known who had chosen to escape from poverty by a different road from the clean, straight one of hard work. She had funked the sharp corners of life, that other, in a way in which this girl with the clear, brown-gold eyes that met the World so squarely would never funk them. Before he could formulate any answer there came the sound of the house-door opening and closing. He rose hastily from his chair.