“Not exactly. I know other members of the family. The type is unmistakable. Long, lean, fair, with watery blue eyes, sandy hair, high noses, and the most extraordinary amount of pride and narrowness. I wish Sir Philip Cranstoun joy of his bargain.” “Do you know him?” “No. But I’ve heard about him from men who have shot at his Scotch place. Hard as nails and proud as Lucifer, that is the character his guests give him. He has some children, I believe, but I don’t know how many. They must be a most unpleasant lot, if there’s anything in heredity. For myself, I can’t imagine a more disagreeable blend than a Cranstoun and a Douglas.” They had ridden many miles since lunch, and by six o’clock, when they arrived at a little wayside inn, the Cranstoun Arms, they were both hungry enough to be glad of the simple fare provided. The landlord had not been settled there for more than three years. He was a cheerful and garrulous person, and quite ready to chat about Sir Philip, whom, however, he had only seen on two occasions. As to Lady Cranstoun and the young lady, the former was an invalid, and never drove about except in a closed carriage accompanied by her daughter, and the landlord could not personally express an opinion concerning them. Concerning Sir Philip’s hard, stern character he had much to impart. The Baronet was especially renowned for his rancor against gypsies. If any one of that nomadic tribe was found trespassing upon his land, he would invariably contrive to have them accused of poaching or thieving. “Sir Philip, he’d go five miles to hang a gypsy, they say about here. It’s wonderful how he do hate them. There’s a story that some twenty odd years ago one of ’em cursed him in the market-place, nigh the court-house. Folks say a gypsy’s curse sticks. But lor’! what won’t people say?” CHAPTER II. STELLA. By half-past six Lord Carthew and Hilary, having finished their improvised meal, strolled down the country road together, smoking, glad to stretch their legs after being so long in the saddle. The former especially was in high glee because of mine host’s deferential manner toward Hilary when he was told by Claud that his name was Lord Carthew. “Until that moment, as you saw,” he exclaimed, “the eggs and bacon and cold beef were supposed to be quite good enough for us. But as soon as the good man found that you had what cockneys call ‘a handle to your name,’ he promptly started profuse and tiresome apologies. It’s such a relief to have that sort of rubbish lavished on you instead of on me.” “I think you make an absurd fuss about trifles,” observed Hilary, calmly.