There was just one thing I was going to ask you. Are these very
Bigwigs?"

Mr. Cuthcott turned to the room and let his screwed-up glance wander. He
looked just then particularly as if he were going to bite.

"If you take 'em at their own valuation: Yes. If at the country's:
So-so. If at mine: Ha! I know what you'd like to ask: Should I be a
Bigwig in THEIR estimation? Not I! As you knock about, Miss Freeland,
you'll find out one thing--all bigwiggery is founded on: Scratch my
back, and I'll scratch yours. Seriously, these are only tenpenny ones;
but the mischief is, that in the matter of 'the Land,' the men who
really are in earnest are precious scarce. Nothing short of a rising
such as there was in 1832 would make the land question real, even for
the moment. Not that I want to see one--God forbid! Those poor doomed
devils were treated worse than dogs, and would be again."

Before Nedda could pour out questions about the rising in 1832,
Stanley's voice said:

"Cuthcott, I want to introduce you!"

Her new friend screwed his eyes up tighter and, muttering something, put
out his hand to her.

"Thank you for our talk. I hope we shall meet again. Any time you want
to know anything--I'll be only too glad. Good night!"

She felt the squeeze of his hand, warm and dry, but rather soft, as of
a man who uses a pen too much; saw him following her uncle across the
room, with his shoulders a little hunched, as if preparing to inflict,
and ward off, blows. And with the thought: 'He must be jolly when he
gives them one!' she turned once more to the darkness, than which he had
said there was nothing nicer. It smelled of new-mown grass, was full of
little shiverings of leaves, and all colored like the bloom of a black
grape. And her heart felt soothed.

CHAPTER IX

"...When I first saw Derek I thought I should never feel anything but
shy and hopeless. In four days, only in four days, the whole world
is different.... And yet, if it hadn't been for that thunder-storm,
I shouldn't have got over being shy in time. He has never loved
anybody--nor have I. It can't often be like that--it makes it solemn.
There's a picture somewhere--not a good one, I know--of a young
Highlander being taken away by soldiers from his sweetheart. Derek is
fiery and wild and shy and proud and dark--like the man in that picture.
That last day along the hills--along and along--with the wind in our
faces, I could have walked forever; and then Joyfields