Alice, unaccustomed to fiction, gave a hesitating “Yes,” at which her hostess looked pleased.  “He is very clever, you know,” she said, “and has been very useful to me on many occasions.”

Alice asked his occupation.

“Oh, he has done many things.  He has been very brave and quite the maker of his own fortunes.  He educated himself, and then I think he edited some Nonconformist paper.  Then he went into politics, and became a Churchman.  Some old man took a liking to him and left him his money, and that was the condition.  So I believe he is pretty well off now and is waiting for a seat.  He has been nursing this constituency, and since the election comes off in a month or two, we asked him down here to stay.  He has also written a lot of things and he is somebody’s private secretary.”  And Lady Manorwater relapsed into vagueness.

The girl listened without special interest, save that she modified her verdict on Mr. Stocks, and allowed, some degree of respect for him to find place in her heart.  The fighter in life always appealed to her, whatever the result of his struggle.

Then Lady Manorwater proceeded to hymn his excellences in an indeterminate, artificial manner, till the men came into the room, and conversation became general.  Lord Manorwater made his way to Alice, thereby defeating Mr. Stocks, who tended in the same direction.  “Come outside and see things, Miss Wishart,” he said.  “It’s a shame to miss a Glenavelin evening if it’s fine.  We must appreciate our rarities.”

And Alice gladly followed him into the still air of dusk which made hill and tree seem incredibly distant and the far waters of the lake merge with the moorland in one shimmering golden haze.  In the rhododendron thickets sparse blooms still remained, and all along by the stream-side stood stately lines of yellow iris above the white water-ranunculus.  The girl was sensitive to moods of season and weather, and she had almost laughed at the incongruity of the two of them in modern clothes in this fit setting for an old tale.  Dickon of Glenavelin, the sworn foe of the Lord of Etterick, on such nights as this had ridden up the water with his bands to affront the quiet moonlight.  And now his descendant was pointing out dim shapes in the park which he said were prize cattle.

“Whew! what a weariness is civilization!” said the man, with comical eyes.  “We have been making talk with difficulty all the evening which serves no purpose in the world.  Upon my word, my kyloes have the best of the bargain.  And in a month or so there will be the election and I shall have to go and rave—­there is no other word for it, Miss Wishart—­rave on behalf of some fool or other, and talk Radicalism which would make your friend Dickon turn in his grave, and be in earnest for weeks when I know in the bottom of my heart that I am a humbug and care for none of these things.  How lightly politics and such matters sit on us all!”