“No disgrace, certainly,” rejoined the millionaire, leaning forward and linking his hands together, while he stared at the ground.  “I am proud of having the gentle Romany blood.  All the same I prefer the West Indian legend, for I don’t want any of my civilized friends to know that I am Ishmael Hearne, born and bred in a tent.”

“Well, that’s natural, Pine.  What would Garvington say?”

“Oh, curse Garvington!”

“Curse the whole family by all means,” retorted Miss Greeby coolly.

Pine looked up savagely, “I except my wife.”

“Naturally.  You always were uxorious.”

“Perhaps,” said Pine gloomily, “I’m a fool where Agnes is concerned.”

Miss Greeby quite agreed with this statement, but did not think it worth while to indorse so obvious a remark.  She sat down in her turn, and taking Lambert’s cigarette case, which she had retained by accident, out of her pocket, she prepared to smoke.  The two were entirely alone in the fairy dell, and the trees which girdled it were glorious with vivid autumnal tints.  A gentle breeze sighing through the wood, shook down yew, crisp leaves on the woman’s head, so that she looked like Danae in a shower of gold.  Pine gazed heavily at the ground and coughed violently.  Miss Greeby knew that cough, and a medical friend of hers had told her several times that Sir Hubert was a very consumptive individual.  He certainly looked ill, and apparently had not long to live.  And if he died, Lady Agnes, inheriting his wealth, would be more desirable as a wife than ever.  And Miss Greeby, guessing whose wife she would be, swore inwardly that the present husband should look so delicate.  But she showed no sign of her perturbations, but lighted her cigarette with a steady hand and smoked quietly.  She always prided herself on her nerve.

The millionaire was tall and lean, with a sinewy frame, and an oval, olive-complexioned face.  It was clean-shaven, and with his aquiline nose, his thin lips, and brilliant black eyes, which resembled those of Kara, he looked like a long-descended Hindoo prince.  The Eastern blood of the Romany showed in his narrow feet and slim brown hands, and there was a wild roving look about him, which Miss Greeby had not perceived in London.

“I suppose it’s the dress,” she said aloud, and eyed Pine critically.

“What do you say, Miss Greeby?” he asked, looking up in a sharp, startled manner, and again coughing in a markedly consumptive way.

“The cowl makes the monk in your case,” replied the woman quietly.  “Your corduroy breeches and velveteen coat, with that colored shirt, and the yellow handkerchief round your neck, seem to suit you better than did the frock coats and evening dress I have seen you in.  You did look like a nigger of sorts when in those clothes; now I can tell you are a gypsy with half an eye.”

“That is because you heard me called Ishmael and saw me among my kith and kin,” said the man with a tired smile.  “Don’t tell Agnes.”