“A stranger?” she asked. “Yes; though he has been living in the neighbourhood all summer. He has a cottage somewhere about here.” “On the Ravensrill?” she asked, in surprise. “That is the fellow,” he nodded. “I’ve never seen him, but I understood he was only staying here for a few months. And now I find that the beggar’s bought Red Farm and intends putting up something in stucco with bow windows! And I daresay he will dig an artificial pond, start a rosary, and turn God’s productive acres into a forcing house for sickly flowers!” “Why shouldn’t he?” she asked coolly, and he stared at her. “After all, you said this was the poorest land round here, and if it cannot be useful it may as well be beautiful. I rather like artificial ponds and rosaries.” In spite of his annoyance he laughed. “Then probably you’ll go to Mr. Gilder’s house-warming,” he said. She started. “Who?” she asked. “Mr. Gilder. He’s something in the City--probably a deuce of a swell in his own way, but I wish he’d gone somewhere else. And as to Leonard, I’ve already told him that I shall not go to his funeral.” “Dick, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” she said indignantly. “Poor old man!” Then, in a different voice: “You don’t know his Christian name?” “Whose--Leonard’s?” “Don’t be stupid--Mr. Gilder’s.” Dick frowned. “Fabrian,” he said at last. “What a name! It sounds like a secret society!” She wondered if Arthur knew of this enterprise of his clerk: it was hardly likely that Mr. Gilder would buy property in the neighbourhood without consulting his chief. For the moment she deemed it prudent to turn the subject. “If you were nice and kind and brotherly,” she said, “you would come along with me to the station and garage my car like a nice man.” He stood irresolutely, and for a moment she went hot at the implied rebuff. And then: “I’m wasting my master’s time,” he said, “but there are occasions when pleasure must interfere with duty, and this is one of them. Do you mind if I drive? I have no faith in women drivers.” “You are very rude,” she said, but nevertheless moved aside to let him take the wheel. “How is Harry this morning?” “Fine,” he said sardonically. And then, heartily ashamed of himself: “Harry is trying a new patent medicine. You’ve never been in his bedroom? That is an indelicate question to ask, but have you?” She shook her head, the hint of laughter in her eyes. “There are about eight hundred and forty-five varieties of patent medicines in Harry’s bedroom,” he said grimly. “Once every three months we have a spring-cleaning and chuck ’em out! Really, there isn’t very much wrong with Harry, and if he did not read patent medicine advertisements he would be a happier man. Just now he’s trying something for his nerves, and if there’s anything left in the bottle at the end of the week I shall take it myself.” “Poor Harry!” she said softly.