It seems that it
is built on our land--or what was ours--and he dislikes the idea of
anyone building at Bryndermere."
"So should I," said Stafford, laconically.
"And besides," she went on, her eyes fixed on the great white building,
so that she did not see his embarrassment, "my father does not like the
man who built it. He thinks that he got the land unfairly; and he--my
father--calls him all sorts of hard names."
Stafford bit his lips, and his face wore the expression which came into
it when he was facing an ugly jump. He would have shirked this one if
he could, but it had to be faced, so he rushed it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "My father built it."
She did not start, but she turned her head and looked at him, with a
sudden coldness in the glorious eyes.
"Your father--Sir Stephen Orme? Then you are--"
"I am his son, yes; my name is Stafford Orme."
She gathered her reins up, as if no comment, no remark were necessary,
but Stafford could not let her go, could not part from her like that.
"I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Heron has some cause of complaint, some
grievance against my father.
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