the girl, as if he were, by that
mere gesture, doing a destructive act and could send a blight upon the
garden.

The strained and almost painful silence was broken by the voice of
Squire Vane, loud even while it was still distant.

"We couldn't make out where you'd got to, Barbara," he said. "This is
my friend, Mr. Cyprian Paynter." The next moment he saw the stranger and
stopped, a little puzzled. It was only Mr. Cyprian Paynter himself who
was equal to the situation. He had seen months ago a portrait of the new
Cornish poet in some American literary magazine, and he found himself,
to his surprise, the introducer instead of the introduced.

"Why, Squire," he said in considerable astonishment, "don't you know Mr.
Treherne? I supposed, of course, he was a neighbor."

"Delighted to see you, Mr. Treherne," said the Squire, recovering his
manners with a certain genial confusion. "So pleased you were able to
come. This is Mr. Paynter---my daughter," and, turning with a certain
boisterous embarrassment, he led the way to the table under the tree.

Cyprian Paynter followed, inwardly revolving a puzzle which had taken
even his experience by surprise. The American, if intellectually an
aristocrat, was still socially and subconsciously a democrat. It had
never crossed his mind that the poet should be counted lucky to know
the squire and not the squire to know the poet. The honest patronage in
Vane's hospitality was something which made Paynter feel he was, after
all, an exile in England.

The Squire, anticipating the trial of luncheon with a strange literary
man, had dealt with the case tactfully from his own standpoint. County
society might have made the guest feel like a fish out of water; and,
except for the American critic and the local lawyer and doctor, worthy
middle-class people who fitted into the picture, he had kept it as a
family party. He was a widower, and when the meal had been laid out on
the garden table, it was Barbara who presided as hostess. She had the
new poet on her right hand and it made her very uncomfortable. She had
practically offered that fallacious jongleur money, and it did not make
it easier to offer him lunch.

"The whole countryside's gone mad," announced the Squire, by way of the
latest local news. "It's about this infernal legend of ours."

"I collect legends," said Paynter, smiling.

"You must remember I haven't yet had a chance to collect yours. And
this," he added, looking round at