He has seated himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very distant lounge.

He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror.

This lovely child has created it, yet why, or how?
Was ever guardian mastered by a ward before?
A desire to escape is filling him, but he has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it.
He has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him.

Miss Wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming smile.
"_Now_ we can have a good talk," says she..