“Nay,” he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.

He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own.

“Whose then⁠—your master’s?” she asked.

He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.

“Who is his master?” continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. “He talked about ‘our house,’ and ‘our folk.’ I thought he had been the owner’s son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn’t he, if he’s a servant?”

Hareton grew black as a thundercloud at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her for departure.