“There might be history in that corner of the graveyard,” said Breitmann.

“Who knows?  Good many strange bits of furniture found their way over here during those tremendous times.  Beautiful place in the daytime; eh?” Fitzgerald added, with an inclination toward The Pines.

“More like an Italian villa than an Englishman’s home.  Good gardeners, I should say.”

“Culture and money will make a bog attractive.”

“Is the admiral cultured, then?”

“I should imagine so.  But I am sure the daughter is.  Not that veneer which passes for it, but that deep inner culture, which gives a deft, artistic touch to the hand, softens the voice, gives elegance to the carriage, with a heart and mind nicely balanced.  Judge for yourself, when you see her.  If there is any rare knickknack in the house, it will have been put there by the mother’s hand or the daughter’s.  The admiral, I believe, occupies himself with his books, his butterflies, and his cruises.”

“A daughter.  She is cultured, you say?  Ah, if culture would only take beauty in hand!  But always she selects the plainer of two women.”

Fitzgerald smiled inwardly.  “I have told you she is not plain.”

“Oh, beautiful,” thoughtfully.  “Culture and beauty; I shall be pleased to observe.”

“H’m!  If there is any marrow in your bones, my friend, you’ll show more interest when you see her.”  This was thought, not spoken.  Fitzgerald wasn’t going to rhapsodize over Miss Killigrew’s charms.  It would have been not only incautious, but suspicious.  Aloud, he said:  “She has a will of her own, I take it; however, of a quiet, resolute order.”

“So long as she is not capricious, and does not interfere with my work—­”

“Or peace of mind!” interrupted Fitzgerald, with prophetic suddenness, which was modified by laughter.

“No, my friend; no woman has ever yet stirred my heart, though many have temporarily captured my senses.  A man in my position has no right to love,” with a dignity which surprised his auditor.

Fitzgerald looked down at the wheels.  There was something even more than dignity, an indefinable something, a superiority which Fitzgerald’s present attitude of mind could not approach.

“This man,” he mused, “will afford some interesting study.  One would think that nothing less than a grand duke was riding in this rattling old carryall.”  There was silence for a time.  “I must warn you, Breitmann, that, in all probability, you will have your meals at the table with the admiral and his daughter; at least, in this house.”

“At the same table?  It would hardly be so in Europe.  But it pleases me.  I have been alone so much that I grow moody; and that is not good.”

There was always that trifling German accent, no matter what tongue he used, but it was perceptible only to the trained ear.  And yet, to Fitzgerald’s mind, the man was at times something Gallic in his liveliness.