"No. We of the Priory have had small dealings with Fillingford lately. We've kept up the forms of civility--but it's been very distant. Underneath, there's been a kind of silent feud--well, more or less silent; but I daresay that'll be all over now." "My father wrote 'Possibly you in your way may succeed better than I in mine.'" "Fillingford wouldn't sell. He's hard up, but he can get along. And there's always the chance of a rich marriage for his son--or even for himself." I really spoke without any thought of a personal reference, but I perceived, directly afterward, that I might well seem to have made one; a marriage with Miss Driver would be undoubtedly rich. She gave no sign, however, of taking my remark in that sense, unless any inference can be drawn from her saying, "Oh, he's a widower?" "He's a widower of forty, or a year or two more--and he's got a son of about seventeen--a very good-looking lad. His sister, Lady Sarah Lacey, keeps house for him, and according to local gossip is a bit of a shrew." She began to laugh as she said with a mock sigh, "One's too old for me, and the other's too young--they must look somewhere else, I'm afraid! And then--how should I get on with the shrew? I'm rather a shrew myself--at least I've been told so." "You'd better let them alone," I counseled her with a smile. "Oh, no, I shan't do that," she rejoined with a decisiveness which I began to recognize as an occasional feature of her speech. "It'll be more amusing to see what they're like--presently. And what of the Dormers? My father mentioned them." "A very nice old couple--but I fear he's failing." A slight grimace dismissed the Dormers as not holding much interest for her. "Oh, you won't want for neighbors. There are plenty of them, and they'll all be tremendously excited about you and will flock to call as soon as you can receive them." "It must seem funny to them. I suppose they'd never heard of me?" "I don't believe any of them had. Your father had no intimates, unless Mr. Cartmell can be called one. Besides--well, I'd never heard of you myself!" "And here we are old friends!" she said graciously. "That's very kind--but you mustn't think yourself bound to take over the secretary with the rest of the furniture." She looked steadily in my face for several seconds, seeming to size me up--if I may be allowed the expression. Then she smiled--not gayly, yet again by no means sadly. It was the smile which I came to call later her mystery smile; and, as a general rule, it meant--in plain language--mischief. Of course, on this first day I did not attach these associations to it. It struck me as merely rather curious; as a man talks to himself, so she seemed to smile to herself, forgetting her interlocutor. "Oh, well--stay and see how you like me," she said. CHAPTER III ON THE USE OF SCRAPES