“How is it that Grenfell, with all his smartness, can never hit it off with any one, young or old, rich or poor?” thought Vyner, as he walked the deck, deep in thought. “He reads everything, has a smattering of all subjects, with a good memory and a glib tongue, and yet I believe I am the only man about town who could tolerate him.” If this were a reflection that had more than once occurred to his mind, it usually ended by impressing the conviction that he, Vyner, must have rare qualities of head and heart, not merely to endure, but actually to almost like, a companionship for which none other would have had taste or temper but himself. Now, however--not easy is it to say why--a doubt flashed across him that his doubting, distrustful, scoffing nature might prove in the end an evil, just as a certain malaria, not strong enough to give fever, will ultimately impregnate the blood and undermine the constitution. “I don’t think he has done me any mischief as yet,” said he to himself, with a smile; “but shall I always be able to say as much?” “You must read this paper--positively you must,” cried Grenfell from the sofa, where he lay under a luxurious awning. “This fellow writes well; he shows that the Irish never had any civilisation, nor, except where it crept in through English influence, has there ever been a vestige of such in the island.” “I don’t see I shall be anything the better for believing him!” “It may save you from that blessed purchase of an Irish property that brought you down to all this savagery. It may rescue you from the regret of having a gentleman shot because he was intrepid enough to collect your rents. That surely is something.” “But I have determined on the purchase of Derryvaragh,” said Vyner, “if it only be what descriptions make it.” “To live here, I hope--to turn Carib--cross yourself when you meet a priest, and wear a landlord’s scalp at your waist-belt.” “Nay, nay! I hope for better things, and that the English influences you spoke of so feelingly will not entirely desert me in my banishment.” “Don’t imagine that any one will come over here to see you, Vyner, if you mean that.” “Not even the trusty Grenfell?” said he, with a half smile. “Not if you were to give me the fee-simple of the barbarous tract you covet.” “I’ll not believe it, George. I’ll back your friendship against all the bogs that ever engulphed an oak forest. But what is that yonder? Is it a boat? It seems only a few feet long.” “It is one of those naval constructions of your charming islanders; and coming this way, too.” “The fellow has got a letter, Sir; he has stuck it in his hatband,” said Mr. Crab. “An answer from Luttrell,” muttered Vyner. “I wonder will he receive me?” CHAPTER V. HOW THE SPOIL WAS DIVIDED The letter, which was handed on board by a very wild-looking native, was written on coarse paper, and sealed with the commonest wax. It was brief, and ran thus: