"I don't know why you should mind--except that I said that the land was got unfairly--I wish I had not said that." Stafford coloured.
"So do I," he said; "but I hope it isn't true.

There may be some mistake.

I don't know anything about my father's affairs--I haven't seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him." She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.
His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again surprised even his most intimate friends.
"Miss Heron, I'm afraid--" He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast and fixed on the horse's ears.
"I scarcely know how to put what I want to say," he said.

"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.