And very pleasant work it
is, especially in fine weather."
"And you are happy?" he asked, almost unconsciously.
Her frank eyes met his with a smile of amusement.
"Yes, quite happy," she answered. "Why? Does it seem so unlikely, so
unreasonable?"
"Well, it does," he replied, as if her frankness were contagious. "Of
course, I could understand it if you did it occasionally, if you did it
because you liked riding; but to be obliged, to have to go out in all
weathers, it isn't right!"
She looked at him thoughtfully.
"Yes, I suppose it seems strange to you. I suppose most of the ladies
you know are rich, and only ride to amuse themselves, and never go out
when they do not want to do so. Sir Stephen Orme--you--are very rich,
are you not? We, my father and I, are poor, very poor. And if I did not
look after things, if I were not my own bailiff--Oh, well, I don't know
what would happen."
Stafford gnawed at his moustache as he gazed at her. The exquisitely
colourless face, in which the violet eyes glowed like two twin flowers,
the delicately cut lips, soft and red, the dark hair clustering at the
ivory temples in wet rings, set his heart beating with a heavy
pulsation that was an agony of admiration and longing--a longing that
was vague and indistinct.
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