That lady bowed coldly, as Delia departed. The tall, soldierly man, whose pleasant looks were somewhat spoilt by a slightly underhung mouth, and prominent chin, disguised, however, by a fine moustache, offered assistance with the luggage. "There is no need, thank you," said Miss Marvell. "Miss Blanchflower and her maid will see to it." And the Captain noticed that the speaker remained entirely passive while the luggage was being collected and piled into a fly by the porters, directed by Miss Blanchflower and her maid. She stood quietly on the platform, till all was ready, and Delia beckoned to her. In the intervals the soldier tried to make conversation, but with very small success. He dwelt upon some of the changes Miss Blanchflower would find on the estate; how the old head-keeper, who used to make a pet of her, was dead, and the new agent her father had put in was thought to be doing well, how the village had lost markedly in population in the last few years--this emigration to Canada was really getting beyond a joke!--and so forth. Miss Marvell made no replies. But she suddenly asked him a question. "What's that house over there?" She pointed to a grey facade on a wooded hill some two miles off. "That's our show place--Monk Lawrence! We're awfully proud of it--Elizabethan, and that kind of thing. But of course you've heard of Monk Lawrence! It's one of the finest things in England." "It belongs to Sir Wilfrid Lang?" "Certainly. Do you know him? He's scarcely been there at all, since he became a Cabinet Minister; and yet he spent a lot of money in repairing it a few years ago. They say it's his wife's health--that it's too damp for her. Anyway it's quite shut up,--except that they let tourists see it once a month." "Does anybody live in the house?"-- "Oh--a caretaker, of course,--one of the keepers. They let the shooting. Ah! there's Miss Blanchflower calling you." Miss Marvell--as the gallant Captain afterwards remembered--took a long look at the distant house and then went to join Miss Blanchflower. The Captain accompanied her, and helped her to stow away the remaining bags into the fly, while a small concourse of rustics, sprung from nowhere, stolidly watched the doings of the heiress and her friend. Delia suddenly bent forward to him, as he was about to shut the door, with an animated look--"Can you tell me who that gentleman is who has just walked off towards the village?"--she pointed. "His name is Lathrop. He lives in a place just the other side of yours. He's got some trout-hatching ponds--will stock anybody's stream for them. Rather a queer customer!"--the good-natured Captain dropped his voice. "Well, good-bye, my train's just coming. I hope I may come and see you soon?" Delia nodded assent, and they drove off.