The boat was already secured to the little stone jetty, and the boatman, a younger shadow of the woodcutter—­ and, indeed, a nephew of that useful malcontent—­saluted his territorial lord with the sullen formality of the family.  The Squire acknowledged it casually and had soon forgotten all such things in shaking hands with the visitor who had just come ashore.  The visitor was a long, loose man, very lean to be so young, whose long, fine features seemed wholly fitted together of bone and nerve, and seemed somehow to contrast with his hair, that showed in vivid yellow patches upon his hollow temples under the brim of his white holiday hat.  He was carefully dressed in exquisite taste, though he had come straight from a considerable sea voyage; and he carried something in his hand which in his long European travels, and even longer European visits, he had almost forgotten to call a gripsack.

Mr. Cyprian Paynter was an American who lived in Italy.  There was a good deal more to be said about him, for he was a very acute and cultivated gentleman; but those two facts would, perhaps, cover most of the others.  Storing his mind like a museum with the wonder of the Old World, but all lit up as by a window with the wonder of the New, he had fallen heir to some thing of the unique critical position of Ruskin or Pater, and was further famous as a discoverer of minor poets.  He was a judicious discoverer, and he did not turn all his minor poets into major prophets.  If his geese were swans, they were not all Swans of Avon.  He had even incurred the deadly suspicion of classicism by differing from his young friends, the Punctuist Poets, when they produced versification consisting exclusively of commas and colons.  He had a more humane sympathy with the modern flame kindled from the embers of Celtic mythology, and it was in reality the recent appearance of a Cornish poet, a sort of parallel to the new Irish poets, which had brought him on this occasion to Cornwall.  He was, indeed, far too well-mannered to allow a host to guess that any pleasure was being sought outside his own hospitality.  He had a long standing invitation from Vane, whom he had met in Cyprus in the latter’s days of undiplomatic diplomacy; and Vane was not aware that relations had only been thus renewed after the critic had read Merlin and Other Verses, by a new writer named John Treherne.  Nor did the Squire even begin to realize the much more diplomatic diplomacy by which he had been induced to invite the local bard to lunch on the very day of the American critic’s arrival.

Mr. Paynter was still standing with his gripsack, gazing in a trance of true admiration at the hollowed crags, topped by the gray, grotesque wood, and crested finally by the three fantastic trees.

“It is like being shipwrecked on the coast of fairyland,” he said,

“I hope you haven’t been shipwrecked much,” replied his host, smiling.  “I fancy Jake here can look after you very well.”