"It's not a nice story," said Guy. "I should think Waynflete was haunted by all their ghosts!" "Ghost-stories are very proper for old families," said Mrs Waynflete; "but of course no one believes them. There, it's a disgraceful story; take it as a warning. You'd better get ready for dinner." She rose and walked out of the room as she spoke, with a quick, firm step, while Guy laughed rather scornfully. "What an anachronism the dear old lady is!" he said. "As if all the world depended on Waynflete!" "I don't know what you mean!" said Godfrey, angrily. "I think she's an awfully splendid old woman to have stuck to her point all her life and won it. Catch a highwayman stopping me!" "My unlucky namesake said it was a ghost." "Well, but it wasn't, you know. There aren't any." "You're the right heir for Aunt Margaret, Godfrey. She ought to leave you Waynflete." "Why; you're the eldest," said Godfrey; "she says interfering with natural laws is wicked." "If primogeniture _is_ a natural law?" "It's the law of England," said Godfrey, as if that settled the point. Guy laughed again. "Ah, Godfrey," he said, "you'll always get past the ghosts! Well, the visit will be rather jolly. I've a great curiosity about Waynflete, and at least it will be clean. I agree with Ruskin that smoke is sinful." "There's a great deal of rot in Ruskin," said Godfrey, "and you ought not to say things are sinful, when they ain't. Plenty of things are." PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO. THE HOUSE. Constancy Vyner was sitting at a table, sorting and arranging a little pile of manuscripts, neatly clipped together, and written in the distinct upright hand of the modern high-school girl. She was dressed in a plain, girlish frock, well cut and well put on, her thick brown hair hung on her shoulders, and curled over her square low forehead in vigorous waves, as if every hair was full of elastic life. Her handsome eyes, of a clear shade of hazel, looked out under straight brown eyebrows, from a brown, rosy face with an air of keen and critical observation; while the straight nose and firm round chin added to her purposeful look. She was tall and strongly made for her sixteen years, and the white, well-shaped hands that held the papers looked as if made to carry out the work which the well-shaped head would conceive. The room in which she sat was as old-fashioned as she herself was modern and up to date, with small irregular panels, sloping roof, and tiny casements, through which the evening sun danced in distorted gleams.