Now, being a busy man, he gave little heed to the terminological convolutions of names among the British aristocracy. He had not the slightest notion that the Marquis of Scarland's wife was Medenham's sister, and, with the quick interest of the stock-breeder, he pointed out to Mrs. Leland an animal that resembled one of his own pedigree bulls, at present waxing fat on the Montana ranch. For the moment Mrs. Leland herself had forgotten the relationship between the two men. "I met the Marquis last year at San Remo," she said heedlessly. "Anyone more unlike a British peer you could not imagine. If I remember rightly, he is a blunt, farmer-like person, but his wife is very charming. By the way, who was she?" Such a question could not pass Mrs. Devar unanswered. "Lady Betty Fitzroy," she chirped instantly. Cynthia, who was looking through the window at the square-towered little church, throned midst the somber yews which shelter the graves of Wordsworth and his kin, caught the odd conjunction of names--"Betty" and "Fitzroy." "Who is that you are speaking of, father?" she asked, though with a listless air that Medenham had never seen during any minute of those five happy days. "The Marquis of Scarland--the man from whom I bought some cattle a few years ago," he said, trusting to the directness of the reply to carry it through unchallenged. Cynthia's brows puckered in a reflective frown. "That is odd," she murmured. "What is odd?" asked her father, while Mrs. Leland bent over the periodical to hide a smile of embarrassment. "Oh, just a curious way of running in grooves people have in this country. They call towns after men and men after towns." She was about to add that Fitzroy had told her of a sister Betty who was married to a man named Scarland, a breeder of pedigree stock, but checked the impulse. For some reason known best to her father, he did not seem to wish any mention to be made of the vanished chauffeur, but she did not gauge the true extent of his readiness to drop the subject on that occasion. Mrs. Leland looked up, caught his eye with a smile, and asked how many miles it was to Thirlmere. Cynthia's thoughts brooded again on poets and lonely graves, and the danger passed.