"I'm rather
bad at explaining myself; but I--well, I hope you won't feel angry with
me because of the house, because of anything that has passed between
your father and mine--Of course I stand by him; but--well, _I_ didn't
build the confounded place--I beg your pardon! but I think it's rather
hard that you should cut me--oh, I can see by your face that you mean
to do it!--that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because--"
The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes
turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.
"Why should you mind?" she said, with almost childish innocence. "You
do not know me; we only met yesterday--we are not friends--Oh I am not
forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!--but what can it matter to
you?"
In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of
coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking
in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such
suspicion.
"I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much," he retorted. "In the
first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next,
we shall be neighbours--I'm going to stay there--" he nodded grimly at
the beautiful "little place.
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