Norcot glanced at Grace and marked her profound indifference. A wave of real indignation made his forehead hot and much astonished him. It was a revelation of himself. Then his mind chanced to roam towards Prince Town; he thought upon Cecil Stark and speculated whether the American could be of any service. While he thought clear prose he continued to utter epigrams for Grace's amusement. "'The wanton snowflakes to her breast Flew down, like birds into their nest, And, vanquished by the whiteness there, For grief they thawed into a tear.'" Then he turned to Malherb again. "The amphora must be recovered at any cost. I need not ask whether you have plans. Do you seek assistance, or undertake the affair single-handed?" "I work alone. Bow Street runners would not run far on Dartmoor. Lovey Lee may well be left to my mercies. It shall never be said that an old and ignorant woman outwitted Maurice Malherb." "Spoken well! I'll wager the amphora will grace dear Annabel's cabinet before wool-shearing. To think of that priceless fragment of glass in the keeping of such a bag of bones!" "And to know that she gets joy of it," said Grace, "that is the amazing matter. She, who eats vermin and wears old sacks, to find her greatest earthly pleasure in the plump Cupids upon that antique!" "Human nature is full of these tricks," answered her father. "I have studied such freakish traits in mankind so long that nothing now has power to surprise me." "Not even yourself? Now I, though so near to forty, can yet astonish myself. I have done so within this hour," confessed Peter. "As to Lovey," he continued, "she'll clothe herself with ashes as well as sackcloth when she loses her treasure." "Well, well, the snow increases. Hasten home, the pair of you," answered Malherb; then he left them together, and turned to an outlying shed where two men worked. "What a fate!" murmured Norcot when he had gone off; "what a pleasing fate, Grace, to be imprisoned here, even as Cecil Stark was imprisoned! How gladly I'd make exchange with him--the rough with the smooth." She made no answer, and he continued-- "Talking of Loves, 'twas a pretty thing that Antonius Tebaltius wrote, and Thompson paraphrased, and Norcot improved-- "'Venus whipt Cupid t'other day, For having lost his bow and quiver; The which he'd given both away To Gracie by a Dartmoor river. "Mamma! you wrong me while you strike," Cried weeping Cupid, "for 'tis true That you and she are so alike, I thought that I had given 'em you!"'" "You've missed the gate while you chattered," said Grace; "now we must climb over the wall." "I generally do miss the gate with you," he answered. "Don't these beautiful pearls that I utter move even a spark of pity?" "Of pity--yes." "'Tis akin to love." "As often akin to contempt." "In mean natures; never in yours." He helped her over the wall, then spoke again as they hurried on with heads bent to the snow.