a princess of a
great family, but a refugee, and of course as poor as sin.... I
remember how badly dressed she was among all the well-to-do Romans.
But, my God, what a beauty! There was never anything in the world like
her.... She was little more than a child, and she used to sing that
air in the morning as she went down the stairs.... They sent me back to
the front before I had a chance of getting to know her, but she used to
give me little timid good mornings, and her voice and eyes were like an
angel's.... I'm over my head in love, but it's hopeless, quite
hopeless. I shall never see her again."

"I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said Dickson reverently.

The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from the memory of his
sorrows, arose and fetched him a clout on the back. "Don't talk of
confidence, as if you were a reporter," he said. "What about that
House? If we're to see it before the dark comes we'd better hustle."

The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, were clothed
towards their summit with a tangle of broom and light scrub. The two
forced their way through it, and found to their surprise that on this
side there were no defences of the Huntingtower demesne. Along the
crest ran a path which had once been gravelled and trimmed. Beyond,
through a thicket of laurels and rhododendrons, they came on a long
unkempt aisle of grass, which seemed to be one of those side avenues
often found in connection with old Scots dwellings. Keeping along this
they reached a grove of beech and holly through which showed a dim
shape of masonry. By a common impulse they moved stealthily, crouching
in cover, till at the far side of the wood they found a sunk fence and
looked over an acre or two of what had once been lawn and flower-beds
to the front of the mansion.

The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted against the glowing
west, but since they were looking at the east face the detail was all
in shadow. But, dim as it was, the sight was enough to give Dickson
the surprise of his life. He had expected something old and baronial.
But this was new, raw and new, not twenty years built. Some madness had
prompted its creator to set up a replica of a Tudor house in a
countryside where the thing was unheard of. All the tricks were
there--oriel windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney stacks; the
very stone was red, as if to imitate the mellow brick of some ancient
Kentish manor. It was new