“There’s always,” he said, “something seductive in looking at a house when you know nothing about the people who live in it.” “But I know a good deal about them,” Wilbraham interposed with a laugh. “Coltson’s been pumping all the village, and I’ve had the benefit of it.” Coltson was Lynborough’s own man, an old soldier who had been with him nearly fifteen years and had accompanied him on all his travels and excursions. Lynborough paid no heed; he was not the man to be put off his reflections by intrusive facts. “The blank wall of a strange house is like the old green curtain at the theatre. It may rise for you any moment and show you--what? Now what is there at Nab Grange?” “A lot of country bumpkins, I expect,” growled Stabb. “No, no,” Wilbraham protested. “I’ll tell you, if you like----” “What’s there?” Lynborough pursued. “I don’t know. You don’t know--no, you don’t, Roger, and you probably wouldn’t even if you were inside. But I like not knowing--I don’t want to know. We won’t visit at the Grange, I think. We will just idealise it, Cromlech.” He cast his queer elusive smile at his friend. “Bosh!” said Stabb. “There’s sure to be a woman there--and I’ll be bound she’ll call on you!” “She’ll call on me? Why?” “Because you’re a lord,” said Stabb, scorning any more personal form of flattery. “That fortuitous circumstance should, in my judgment, rather afford me protection.” “If you come to that, she’s somebody herself.” Wilbraham’s knowledge would bubble out, for all the want of encouragement. “Everybody’s somebody,” murmured Lynborough--“and it is a very odd arrangement. Can’t be regarded as permanent, eh, Cromlech? Immortality by merit seems a better idea. And by merit I mean originality. Well--I sha’n’t know the Grange, but I like to look at it. The way I picture her----” “Picture whom?” asked Stabb. “Why, the Lady of the Grange, to be sure----” “Tut, tut, who’s thinking of the woman?--If there is a woman at all.” “I am thinking of the woman, Cromlech, and I’ve a perfect right to think of her. At least, if not of that woman, of a woman--whose like I’ve never met.” “She must be of an unusual type,” opined Stabb with a reflective smile. “She is, Cromlech. Shall I describe her?” “I expect you must.” “Yes, at this moment--with the evening just this colour--and the Grange down there--and the sea, Cromlech, so remarkably large, I’m afraid I must. She is, of course, tall and slender; she has, of course, a rippling laugh; her eyes are, of course, deep and dreamy, yet lighting to a sparkle when one challenges. All this may be presupposed. It’s her tint, Cromlech, her colour--that’s what’s in my mind to-night; that, you will find, is her most distinguishing, her most wonderful characteristic.” “That’s just what the Vicar told Coltson! At least he said that the Marchesa had a most extraordinary complexion.” Wilbraham had got something out at last.