h the invitingness of a beckoning
hand, the English countryside summoned the gentleman to come out to it,
to explore and penetrate for himself. He gazed charmed and entranced
at the expanse of rippling meadow where, enclosed by the curtains of
soft old trees, the thatch of the eaves lifted their breast to the sun
and mist, and chimneys black with immemorial fires indicated the farms
of Westboro', rich, homely and respectable, as they left upon the
landscape harmonious color and history of thrift. To the east was the
dim suggestion of the little town, and some few miles in a hollow lay
the farmlands known as The Dials, and each second growing more
distinctly visible in the deepening light rose the towers of Penhaven
Abbey.

At the Duke's urging, Bulstrode had been led to stop on at Westboro'
Castle after the house party had dissolved at the end of their week's
sojourn; and there had since been many long tramps across country, with
the dogs at his heels and by his side the Duke, for the time diverted
from his semi-melancholy, semi-egotistical cynicism, and transformed
into an enthusiastic sport.

The Duke of Westboro' was a _desenchante_, more truly speaking a victim
of other peoples' temperaments. There were, however, not a few little
scores in the character of moral delinquencies which at least, so he
felt, he had been called upon quite fully to discharge.

The American man gave himself over to his host, and from the time
Westboro' put out a bait of "Oh, you're decidedly not turning in at
this hour, old man?" he flanked the Duke on the opposite side of the
fireplace in the East Library, there after coffee to wear away half the
night. During the following fortnight, Bulstrode found that he had
tallied up with his friend very closely the scores of the last few
miserable years.

Westboro's friendship with him dated back some ten years. Bulstrode
had first known the Englishman at Newport where, then not a young man,
he had come obviously and frankly in search of an American wife. The
search was unusual in that it was not for money, but, as Westboro' put
it, for type and race. His mother had been an American. He had adored
her, and wanted an American mother for his children. The woman
herself--and how Bulstrode saw it as he followed the deserted husband's
narrative--the woman had been a secondary thing. He recalled easily
the summary and conventional courtship and the vulgar brilliance of the
wedding. He had