Gita was regarding him with interested eyes. “How odd!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been feeling just like that lately. Been reading a history of New Jersey; and my old manor must have accumulated tomes. Primeval wilderness and Indians. Dutch—West India Company. Swedes. English. Dutch once more. English again. Constant disputes between governors and between East and West New Jersey before they were reunited. Always on the verge of war with New England. Jealousies, heart-burnings, shattered careers. Governors who oppressed and provoked the people to rebellion, and one who ‘dressed himself in a woman’s habit and patrolled his fort.’ Quakers. Witches. Lords Proprietors. Negro risings, and negro slaves burned alive for assault. Then the American Revolution; there was a good deal of fighting around here. And all the rest. And the Carterets lived a wild life of their own. My baronial hall, as the historian calls it, has an aloof, brooding, almost intolerably self-satisfied air, as if it knew so much more than any mere mortal could ever learn. It is quite haughtily reserved and withdrawn and only condescends to me because I was born a Carteret. But it really makes me feel more at home than I ever felt anywhere else, and I’d starve before I’d have its atmosphere damaged by aliens.” “I understand. I understand—perfectly.” He had turned a little pale, but he continued to regard her with eyes that evinced mere friendly interest. And as he had evidently been as devoted to his mother as she to poor Millicent, and as he had without conscious effort made her talk freely, and understood her at that, she decided—particularly as there seemed to be no prospect of getting rid of him—to tolerate him for the morning at least. “I’m rather tired,” she said. “Let’s sit down.” They had come to the edge of the pool, an oval sheet of water in the heart of the wood, so densely surrounded by pines that their branches were reflected in the water and there was hardly room to sit on the turf. She propped herself against a tree and he selected one close by. “Now,” she said, “tell me more of your mother. What did she look like?” “Very much like you,” said Bylant. CHAPTER XIII For a moment Gita felt more angry than astonished, and half rose. Then she settled back with a laugh. “Someone’s mother is the very last—— Was she any relation of the Carterets?” “Not that I know of, but types are not confined to families.” “I don’t at all like being told I belong to a type.”