“How very selfish of him!”

“Not at all. He gave her leave to engage an expensive French chef for the Season, so she was well satisfied.”

Torquil, who had been sitting in brooding silence, got up abruptly, and left the room. Kate saw her aunt look quickly at the doctor, who said: “I too must beg to be excused, my lady,” and followed Torquil.

“May I know who holds the key to the gun room, Minerva?”

“I do.”

Philip nodded, and began to carve some cold beef. When he had finished breakfast, he went away to visit Sir Timothy, and remained with him for an hour. Meanwhile, Kate tried to continue her discussion with Lady Broome, but found her evasive, and disinclined to take her seriously. When Kate said, in desperation, that under no circumstances would she marry Torquil, she laughed, and replied: “Well, you have told me that twice already, my love!”

“I think you don’t believe me, ma’am. But I am perfectly sincere!”

“Oh, yes, I believe that! You may change your mind.”

“I promise you I shall not. I—I don’t wish to leave you, but don’t you think I had better do so, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t, you foolish child! What a piece of work you do make of it! I begin to regret that I ever mentioned the matter to you: I did so only because I wished to assure you that I shouldn’t oppose the match. Now I must go and talk to Chatburn: you haven’t met him, have you? He is Sir Timothy’s bailiff, and a very worthy man, but aptly named, so you must not be surprised if you don’t see me again this morning!”

Kate was left feeling that she had been annihilated. Lady Broome had made her realize that to flee from Staplewood would be as ungrateful as it would be theatrical, and she was passionately determined to show her aunt that she was neither. She would be obliged to remain at Staplewood until the end of the summer, but she was uneasy. She knew that Torquil liked her; she knew that he was beginning to fancy himself in love with her; but while she had no doubt that he would abandon his suit to her the instant more attractive metal came within his range she doubted her ability to cast a damper on his pretensions without exciting his precarious temper, or causing him to fall into one of his fits of dejection. It was only twenty-four hours since he had announced that he would like to marry her, and she had snubbed him. He had Sung away in a fury, and, although no evil consequences seemed to have resulted, she knew that the effects of his rages on his constitution were dreaded by his mother, and his doctor. She foresaw that it would be difficult to hold him at arm’s length without provoking or wounding him, and tried, quite unavailingly, to think how it could be done.

When Lady Broome had left her, she went out on to the terrace, but a gusty wind soon drove her to the shrubbery, where she walked up and down for some time, before sitting down on one of the benches which had been placed there for Sir Timothy’s convenience. She sat there for twenty minutes, her brain occupied with the problems confronting her, and her fingers plaiting and unplaiting the fringe of her shawl. There was a furrow between her brows, and although her eyes were fixed on her busy hands it was plain that her thoughts were abstracted.

“What troubles you, Cousin Kate?”

She looked up quickly, startled, for she had not heard Mr Philip Broome’s approach. He was standing a little way away, and she had the feeling that he had been there for several minutes, watching her. She exclaimed, with a tolerable assumption of liveliness: “Good God, sir, how you did make me jump! I didn’t hear you.”

He came forward unhurriedly, and sat down on the bench beside her. “I know you didn’t: you were too intent on your work!”

“On my work?” she echoed, bewildered. Her eyes followed the direction of his levelled quizzing-glass, and she flushed, and said, in some confusion: “Oh, my fringe! How absurd! It is one of my bad habits to make plaits, or knots, or pleats when I’m—when my mind is otherwhere!”

“Yes?” he said. “And where was your mind?”

“Oh, in a dozen places at least!” she said lightly.

He was silent for a minute, and began to unplait her fringe. Since he was looking down at it, Kate had the opportunity to study his profile. He had regular features, and a well-shaped head, and was generally held to be passably good-looking. Kate decided that he was a very handsome man: not, of course, as handsome as Torquil, but far more virile. His was a strong face, and if his mouth was stern, and his eyes very keen and hard, she knew that his smile was unexpectedly attractive, wanning his eyes, and softening the lines about his mouth. He might be inflexible, but it was impossible to suspect him of being unscrupulous.

He raised his head, turning it slightly to look at Kate. He was not smiling, but although his eyes were searching they were kind. He repeated: “What troubles you, Kate?”

“My dear sir, nothing!”

“No, don’t try to hoax me! What has happened to put you in a worry?”

“Merely a small, private matter, sir.”

“That’s taught me to mind my own business,” he observed.

She could not help laughing. “I wish it may have done so! The truth is that I’m confronted with a problem, and haven’t made up my mind how to settle it.”

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“Thank you, I don’t require help!”

He hesitated. “Or advice? Mine is that you should leave this place.”

This made her remember that she had a crow to pluck with him. She stiffened, and her eyes flashed a challenge. “Why, sir?” she demanded.

Again he hesitated, before saying: “Do you recall that I warned you yesterday that you might be required to make what I believe would be a sacrifice, in return for the benefits bestowed on you?”

“Very clearly! And you meant, did you not, that my aunt might propose to me that I should marry Torquil?” She waited for his answer, and, when he nodded, swept on, in a voice vibrant with wrath: “And when you came here, and—and looked at me as if I were a—a designing trollop, you believed I was in a string with my aunt! Didn’t you?”

He smiled ruefully. “Yes, I did. I beg your pardon! Does it mitigate the offence when I assure you that I very soon learned that I had misjudged you?”

It did, of course, but she saw no reason why she should forgive him so easily, or deny herself the satisfaction of raking him down, so she evaded this question, and gave him a rare trimming. He bore it meekly, but with such an appreciative twinkle in his eye that she was goaded into saying: “And if you had been within my reach, sir, when I realized what you thought of me, I would have boxed your ears!”

“Most understandable!” he said sympathetically. “But I am within your reach now, so if you would like to box my ears, pray do so! I won’t attempt to defend myself.”

“There is nothing I should like more,” she assured him, “but I hope I have too much propriety of taste to allow myself to be carried away by indignation!”

“I was hoping that too. But don’t you mean too much sense of justice? It was very bad of me, but you must remember that I’d never met you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have prejudged me!” she said severely.

“I know I shouldn’t. I hope it may be a lesson to me.”

“So do I, but I doubt it!” she retorted, trying not to laugh. However, having discharged her spleen, her natural good humour reasserted itself, and she did laugh, and said candidly: “As a matter of fact, when I came to think it over, I did perceive that there was a good deal of excuse for you. It must have looked as if I were trying to lure Torquil into matrimony. The thing was that it never entered my head that I ought to hold him at a distance, because he is only a schoolboy, and I am years older than he is. And my aunt told me that he lacked young companionship, which indeed he does, poor boy! To own the truth, sir, I am excessively sorry for him.”

He looked at her, an arrested expression in his eyes. “Are you?”

“Well, of course I am! Are not you?”

“I am very sorry for him,” he agreed.

She thought he sounded indifferent, and suspected that he had no liking for Torquil. “I know you don’t think so,” she said, “but I believe he would be very much better if he were not cooped up here. It seems to me quite shocking!”

“Does it?”

“Yes, it does! My aunt believes that London would knock him up, and dreads his being ill. I fancy she is afraid he would go the pace too fast, and commit some extravagant folly, through being so excitable. I expect she is quite right, because he’s green, and would be bound to hob-nob with the sort of young man who is always ripe for a spree: I daresay you know what I mean?”

“Choice spirits,” he said, with the glimmer of a smile.

“Is that what they are called? Well, I do see that that might be dangerous, and I perfectly understand my aunt’s anxiety. But what I do not understand is why he must be kept at Staplewood the whole time, and never permitted to go anywhere! One would have supposed that my aunt would have wished to try if one of the watering-places might not be of benefit to him, but—” She stopped, and said, in a conscience-stricken tone: “I didn’t mean to say that. I know I should not.”

“Are you afraid I might tell Minerva? I shan’t.”

“No, but I shouldn’t criticize her.”

“On the contrary! You should—and, in fact, you do!”

“Yes,” she confessed. “I can’t help doing so, but I feel it’s ungrateful, because she has been so kind to me.”

“Are you fond of her?” he asked abruptly.

She began to plait her fringe again, and did not answer immediately, but when he laid his hand over her unquiet ones, checking her, she looked up, and said, with an embarrassed flush: “Oh, dear! was I at that again? No, I’m afraid I’m not fond of her. Not very fond of her, that is! I don’t know why, because she seems to be fond of me, and in general, you know—”