"
"May I inquire the nature of your errand, Sir Richard?" she asks,
in a low voice. "Though I am afraid I cannot be of any service as
regards any business of the farm."
"How is that?" he asks, steadily keeping gaze upon her.
"The farm passes to Mr. Pemberthy's cousin in a few days' time."
"Indeed! Then you--"
He pauses half-way for a reply, but it is long in coming. Only the
humming of the bees disturbs the silence of the room.
"Then you leave here?" he concludes at last.
"Yes. It is only the male Pemberthys who rule," she says.
"Your--your children?"
"My one little boy, my dear Algy, died before his father. It was
a great disappointment to my husband that he should die. We female
Pemberthys," she says, with a sudden real bright little smile that
settles down into sadness again very quickly, "do not count for a
great deal in the family."
"How long has Mr. Pemberthy been dead?"
"Six months."
"You are left poor?" he says, very quickly now.
"I--I don't think you have a right to ask me such a question,
sir."
"I have no right," he replies. "These are foreign manners. Excuse
them, please; don't mind me."
Still he is persistent.
"From son to son's son, and the women left anywhere and anyhow--that
is the Pemberthy law, I expect.
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