"My father is quite well; he is
just as he usually is this morning."
"I am very glad," said Stafford. He stood close beside the horse and
looked up at her; and for the first time in his life he was trying to
keep the expression of admiration out of his eyes; the expression which
he knew most women welcomed, but which, somehow or other, he felt this
strange girl would resent. "I was afraid he would be upset. I am afraid
you were frightened last night--it was enough to alarm, to startle
anyone. What a splendid morning!" he went on, quickly, as if he did not
want to remind her of the affair. "What a libel it is to say that it is
always raining here! I've never seen so brilliant a sunshine or such
colours: don't wonder that the artists rave about the place and are
never tired of painting it."
She waited until he had finished, her eyes downcast, as if she knew why
he had turned from the subject, then she raised them and looked at him
with her direct gaze.
"I am glad I have met you," she said. "I wanted to thank you for your
kindness last night--"
"Oh, but--" Stafford tried to break in, but she went on slowly, as if
he had not spoken.
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