“Why, Squire,” he said in considerable astonishment, “don’t you know Mr. Treherne?  I supposed, of course, he was a neighbor.”

“Delighted to see you, Mr. Treherne,” said the Squire, recovering his manners with a certain genial confusion.  “So pleased you were able to come.  This is Mr. Paynter—–­my daughter,” and, turning with a certain boisterous embarrassment, he led the way to the table under the tree.

Cyprian Paynter followed, inwardly revolving a puzzle which had taken even his experience by surprise.  The American, if intellectually an aristocrat, was still socially and subconsciously a democrat.  It had never crossed his mind that the poet should be counted lucky to know the squire and not the squire to know the poet.  The honest patronage in Vane’s hospitality was something which made Paynter feel he was, after all, an exile in England.

The Squire, anticipating the trial of luncheon with a strange literary man, had dealt with the case tactfully from his own standpoint.  County society might have made the guest feel like a fish out of water; and, except for the American critic and the local lawyer and doctor, worthy middle-class people who fitted into the picture, he had kept it as a family party.  He was a widower, and when the meal had been laid out on the garden table, it was Barbara who presided as hostess.  She had the new poet on her right hand and it made her very uncomfortable.  She had practically offered that fallacious jongleur money, and it did not make it easier to offer him lunch.

“The whole countryside’s gone mad,” announced the Squire, by way of the latest local news.  “It’s about this infernal legend of ours.”

“I collect legends,” said Paynter, smiling.

“You must remember I haven’t yet had a chance to collect yours.  And this,” he added, looking round at the romantic coast, “is a fine theater for anything dramatic.”

“Oh, it’s dramatic in its way,” admitted Vane, not without a faint satisfaction.  “It’s all about those things over there we call the peacock trees—­I suppose, because of the queer color of the leaf, you know, though I have heard they make a shrill noise in a high wind that’s supposed to be like the shriek of a peacock; something like a bamboo in the botanical structure, perhaps.  Well, those trees are supposed to have been brought over from Barbary by my ancestor Sir Walter Vane, one of the Elizabethan patriots or pirates, or whatever you call them.  They say that at the end of his last voyage the villagers gathered on the beach down there and saw the boat standing in from the sea, and the new trees stood up in the boat like a mast, all gay with leaves out of season, like green bunting.  And as they watched they thought at first that the boat was steering oddly, and then that it wasn’t steering at all; and when it drifted to the shore at last every man in that boat was dead, and Sir Walter Vane, with his sword drawn, was leaning up against the tree trunk, as stiff as the tree.”