Somewhat disappointed, for their short _tête-à-tête_ interview had given promise of better things, Henry turned his attention to her father, and soon discovered that he was a most interesting and brilliant companion. Mr. Levinger could talk well on any subject and, whatever the matter he touched, he adorned it by an aptness and facility of illustration truly remarkable in a man who for twenty years and more was reported to have been little better than a hermit. At length they settled down to the discussion of archæological questions, in which, as it chanced, Henry took an intelligent interest, and more particularly of the flint weapons used by the early inhabitants of East Anglia. Of these, as it appeared, Mr. Levinger possessed one of the best collections extant, together with a valuable and unique series of ancient British, Danish and Saxon gold ornaments and arms. The subject proved so mutually agreeable, indeed, that before dinner was over Mr. Levinger had given, and Henry had accepted, an invitation to stay a night or two at Monk’s Lodge and inspect these treasures,—this, be it said, without any arrière-pensée,—at any rate, so far as the latter was concerned. In the silence that followed this pleasant termination to their talk Henry overheard Milward pumping Miss Levinger. “Miss Graves tells me,” he was saying, “er—that you live in that delightful old house beyond—er—Bradmouth—the one that is haunted.” “Yes,” she answered, “if you mean Monk’s Lodge. It is old, for the friars used it as a retreat in times of plague, and after that it became a headquarters of the smugglers; but I never heard that it was haunted.” “Oh! pray don’t rob me of my illusion, Miss Levinger. I drove past there with your neighbours the Marchams; and Lady Marcham, the dowager—the one who wears an eye-glass I mean—assured me that it was haunted by a priest running after a grey nun, or a grey nun running after a priest, which seems more likely; and I am certain she cannot be mistaken: she never was about anything yet, spiritual or earthly, except her own age.” “Lady Marcham may have seen the ghost: I have not,” said Emma. “Oh, I have no doubt that she has seen it: she sees everything. Of course you know her? She is a dear old soul, isn’t she?” “I have met Lady Marcham; I do not know her,” answered Emma. “Not know Lady Marcham!” said Milward, in affected surprise; “why, I should have thought that it would have been as easy to escape knowing the North Sea when one was on it; she is positively _surrounding._ What _do_ you mean, Miss Levinger?” “I mean that I have not the honour of Lady Marcham’s acquaintance,” she replied, in an embarrassed voice. “If that cad does not stop soon, I shall shut him up!” reflected Henry.