“Yes, but I am not a girl,” she pointed out. “You must not suppose, because I said I was in despair, that I am not very well able to take care of myself, for I promise you that I am! I told you once before that I didn’t come to batten on my aunt, but I think you didn’t believe me.”

“No, I didn’t, but I’ve changed my mind. Or, rather, I can’t blame you for succumbing to temptation. In your circumstances—which must, if you are obliged to earn your bread, be uncomfortably straitened—it would have been hard to have refused the offer of a home.”

“Well,” she said frankly, “it was hard! Indeed, my aunt made it almost impossible for me to refuse her invitation. She said I might at least spend the summer at Staplewood. It seemed absurd not to do so, particularly when she said that she could use her influence to procure an eligible situation for me. So I came, meaning to make myself useful. But she gives me nothing to do but the most trifling tasks, showers gifts upon me, and when I protest, says that it was always her wish to have a daughter, and that if I want to please her I’ll accept them.”

“Gammon!” said Philip. “I’m sorry if I offend you, but there’s no other word for it. Minerva never had any such wish!”

“No, I don’t think she had, but you will own that it is kind of her to say so. It is to put me at my ease, of course.”

“Has it occurred to you, Kate, that she is placing you under an obligation?”

“Oh, yes, indeed it has, and it is crushing me!” she said earnestly. “If only there were some way of requiting her—not arranging flowers, or entertaining Sir Timothy, or bearing Torquil company, but a big thing! Something that was vital to her, or—or even something that entailed a sacrifice! But there isn’t anything that I can discover.”

There was a pause, during which he frowned down at his well-kept fingernails. At length he said slowly: “If she were to demand it of you, would you be prepared to make a sacrifice of yourself?”

“Yes, of course I should! At least, I hope I should!” She looked sharply at him. “Why, do you know of something? Pray tell me!”

Again there was a pause, while he seemed to deliberate. Then he said: “No, I can’t tell you, Kate. I suspect that there may be, but while all is conjecture I prefer to keep my tongue. But this I will say to you!—You are not entirely friendless! You have a friend in me, and you may call upon me at any time. Believe me, I shan’t play the wag!”

She laughed at this. “Does that mean that you won’t fight shy? From what I have seen of you, sir, I am fully persuaded that you wouldn’t! You would come—come bang up to the mark—is that right?—and positively enjoy sporting your canvas! I make no apology for employing boxing cant: you cannot have forgotten that I was reared in Army circles!”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes warm with amusement. “I haven’t forgotten that! Has anyone ever told you, Cousin Kate, that you are—wholly entrancing?”

“Since you ask me, sir,” she replied, with great calm, “yes—several persons!”

“And yet you are still unmarried!”

“Very true! It is a mortifying reflection,” she said, mournfully shaking her head.

“Cousin Kate, you are a rogue!”

“Yes, that’s another mortifying reflection,” she agreed. She turned her head to study him, and asked involuntarily: “I wish you will tell me, sir! Why does Torquil hate you so much? Why does he think you the author of the various accidents which have befallen him? He believes you to covet his inheritance, but you don’t, do you?”

“No: there is nothing I covet less! I have an estate of my own, in Rutlandshire: my father bought it, and I wouldn’t willingly exchange it for all Staplewood’s grandeurs.” His face softened. “I hope I may, one day, be able to show it to you, Kate! I think—no, I am certain—that you would be pleased with it! My father, foreseeing all the possibilities which attached to it, caused the original farmhouse to be demolished, and built upon the site a neat, commodious manor, which has been my home since his retirement, nearly ten years ago. Between us, we set about the task of improving the property. But he died before he could see the results of our efforts. My mother survived him by less than a twelvemonth, since when I have lived there alone—but too busy to be lonely! I farm my land, you know, and hunt with the Cottesmore. We pride ourselves on our hounds! They may not be so quick in the open as the Quorn, but they are the best of any on the line. They must needs be good hunters, for our country is very deep and rough. But you mustn’t encourage me to bore on about hounds and hunting!”

“No, indeed you don’t bore me!” she assured him. “I have hunted myself, in Portugal, and in Spain. Not, of course, with the Duke’s pack, but several officers hunted their own hounds, and permitted me to join them now and then. I’m told that the country doesn’t compare with the Shires, but I don’t think you could call it humbug country, for all that!”

“I am very sure I couldn’t! You must be a notable horsewoman, Kate!”

“Well, I don’t think I’m contemptible, but I must own that I took a great many tumbles!” she said merrily. “Do you hunt here?”

“Oh, yes, with the Pytchley! That is to say, I was used to when I was younger. While my father was employed abroad, this was my home. My uncle mounted me on my first pony, and inducted me into all the niceties of the sport—and even burdened himself with me in the field when I was a clumsy schoolboy! I must have been a dead bore to him, but he never let me guess it.”

“You have a great regard for him, haven’t you?” she said gently.

“A very great regard. He was a second father to me.”

“It must be a grief to you to see him failing, as I fear he is.”

“Yes. When I recall what he once was—But that serves no purpose! He abandoned the struggle a long time ago, and is content now to let Minerva rule the roost.”

She could not deny the truth of this, so she was silent for a minute or two before turning the subject. “Does Torquil know that you don’t covet Staplewood?” she asked him.

“Yes, in his more rational moments,” he replied. “At such times, he doesn’t hate me in the least. So far as he is capable of being fond of anyone, he is fond of me, I believe.”

“Then why—Is he perhaps jealous of you? Because Sir Timothy loves you? Because he thinks Sir Timothy wishes you to succeed him?”

“My uncle doesn’t wish that.”

“But Torquil might think so, might he not?”

He shrugged. “Possibly.” He looked round. “Where, by the way, is Torquil? I had thought he was with you.”

“He was, but I pinched at him, and he flung away in rage. I daresay he is in the woods, or in the belvedere.”

“Take care what you are about!” he warned her. “Torquil can be violent!”

“Oh, yes, I know he can!” she answered blithely. “He often puts me in mind of one of my late charges—a veritable demon, who became violent the instant his will was crossed! However, I managed him tolerably well, and, even though you don’t think so, I believe I can manage Torquil. At all events, I haven’t failed yet!” She got up. “I must go and see if my aunt has any errands for me to run.”

He too got up, and possessed himself of her hand. “Very well, but don’t forget what I have been saying to you! If you should want help, you may count upon me!”

“Thank you—I’m much obliged to you, but I can’t imagine why I should want help. In any event, you won’t be at hand, will you?”

“No more than thirty miles away: Broome Manor is near Oakham. But I am not returning there immediately. When I leave Staplewood I shall probably go to stay with Templecombe for a few days. Which reminds me I’m dining with him this evening: I must tell Minerva.”

Lady Broome received this news with cold civility, but confided to Kate that she considered it pretty cool of Philip to treat the house as though it were his own. “I shall be thankful when he takes himself off altogether,” she said. “I don’t know how it is, but he always contrives to set everyone at odds. Now he has upset Torquil!”

“I’m afraid I did that, ma’am,” said Kate guiltily. “I gave him a scold, for talking dramatic nonsense, and he went off in a huff.”

“Oh! Well, I daresay he was very provoking, but young men, my dear, don’t care to be scolded, and certainly not by young women! You should learn to button your lip.”

Feeling that this, the second, rebuke she had received that day, was unjust, Kate merely said, in a colourless tone: “Yes, ma’am: I will endeavour to do so.”

“Foolish child!” said her ladyship, pinching her chin, and laughing. “Pokering up because I venture to give you a hint! Must I apologize?”

“Oh, Aunt Minerva, no!” Kate exclaimed remorsefully. “It is rather for me to apologize!”

She felt even more remorseful when she later overheard Lady Broome asking Pennymore if Mr Torquil had not yet come in; and slipped out of the house to look for him. It seemed to be the least she could do to atone for having upset him. She caught a glimpse of Mr Philip Broome driving himself down the avenue in his natty curricle, and had just enough time to admire his forward-stepping pair before the trees hid him from her sight. She was conscious of envy, because he was escaping from Staplewood, but banished so impious a thought, and trod swiftly across the lawn, in the direction of the belvedere.

But when she reached it she found that it was empty. She went down on to the bridge, and paused there, wondering whether to search through the woods, or to go back to the house. Instead of doing either, she called: “Torquil! Torquil!”