The house was a solid square mansion built upon the side of a hill, and the ground in front of it fell away very quickly from the terrace to what Sir Charles imagined must be a pond, for a light mist hung at the bottom.  On the other side of the pond the ground rose again in a steep hill.  But Sir Charles had no opportunity at this moment to get any accurate knowledge of the house and its surroundings.  For apart from the darkness, it was close upon supper-time and Miss Resilda Mardale must assuredly not be kept waiting.  His valet subsequently declared that Sir Charles had seldom been so particular in the choice of his coat and small-clothes; and the supper-bell certainly rang out before he was satisfied with the set of his cravat.

He could not, however, consider his pains wasted when once he was set down opposite to Resilda.  She was taller than he had expected her to be, but he did not count height a fault so long as there was grace to carry it off, and grace she had in plenty.  Her face had gained in delicacy and lost nothing of its brilliancy, or of its remarkable clearness of complexion.  Her hair too if it was less rebellious, and more neatly coiled, had retained its glory of profusion, and her big black eyes, though to be sure they were grown a trifle sedate, no doubt could sparkle as of old.  Sir Charles set himself to make them sparkle.  Old Mr. Mardale prattled of his inventions to his heart’s delight—­he described the wheel, and also a flying machine and besides the flying machine, an engine by which steam might be used to raise water to great altitudes.  Sir Charles was ready from time to time with a polite, if not always an appropriate comment, and for the rest he paid compliments to Resilda.  Still the eyes did not sparkle, indeed a pucker appeared and deepened on her forehead.  Sir Charles accordingly redoubled his gallantries, he was slyly humorous about the horse-liniment, and thereupon came the remark which so surprised him and was the beginning of his strange discoveries.  For Resilda suddenly leaned towards him and said frankly: 

“I would much rather, Sir Charles, you told me something of your great mole at Tangier.”

Sir Charles had reason for surprise.  The world had long since forgotten his mole, if ever it had been concerned in it.  Yet here was a girl whose thoughts might be expected to run on youths and ribands talking of it in a little village four miles from Leamington as though there were no topic more universal.  Sir Charles Fosbrook answered her gravely.

“I thought never to speak of Tangier and the mole again.  I spent many years upon the devising and construction of that great breakwater.  It could have sheltered every ship of his Majesty’s navy.  It was wife and children to me.  My heart lay very close to it.  I fancied indeed my heart was disrupted with the disruption of the mole, and it has at all events, lain ever since as heavy as King Charles’ Chest.”