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.

I can understand his not liking the house; to tell you the truth, I don't care for it much myself.

Yes; I can understand Mr.Heron's annoyance; I suppose he can see it from your house ?" "No," she said, simply.

"This is the only part of our land from which it can be seen, and my father never comes here: never leaves the grounds, the garden." She paused a moment.