on the subject of the occupants of the castle, to which George listened attentively.  He was not greatly encouraged by what he heard of Lord Marshmoreton.  The earl had made himself notably unpopular in the village recently by his firm—­the house-agent said “pig-headed”—­attitude in respect to a certain dispute about a right-of-way.  It was Lady Caroline, and not the easy-going peer, who was really to blame in the matter; but the impression that George got from the house-agent’s description of Lord Marshmoreton was that the latter was a sort of Nero, possessing, in addition to the qualities of a Roman tyrant, many of the least lovable traits of the ghila monster of Arizona.  Hearing this about her father, and having already had the privilege of meeting her brother and studying him at first hand, his heart bled for Maud.  It seemed to him that existence at the castle in such society must be little short of torture.

“I must do something,” he muttered.  “I must do something quick.”

“Beg pardon,” said the house-agent.

“Nothing,” said George.  “Well, I’ll take that cottage.  I’d better write you a cheque for the first month’s rent now.”

So George took up his abode, full of strenuous—­if vague—­purpose, in the plainly-furnished but not uncomfortable cottage known locally as “the one down by Platt’s.”  He might have found a worse billet.  It was a two-storied building of stained red brick, not one of the thatched nests on which he had looked down from the hill.  Those were not for rent, being occupied by families whose ancestors had occupied them for generations back.  The one down by Platt’s was a more modern structure—­a speculation, in fact, of the farmer whose wife came to “do” for George, and designed especially to accommodate the stranger who had the desire and the money to rent it.  It so departed from type that it possessed a small but undeniable bath-room.  Besides this miracle, there was a cosy sitting-room, a larger bedroom on the floor above and next to this an empty room facing north, which had evidently served artist occupants as a studio.  The remainder of the ground floor was taken up by kitchen and scullery.  The furniture had been constructed by somebody who would probably have done very well if he had taken up some other line of industry; but it was mitigated by a very fine and comfortable wicker easy chair, left there by one of last year’s artists; and other artists had helped along the good work by relieving the plainness of the walls with a landscape or two.  In fact, when George had removed from the room two antimacassars, three group photographs of the farmer’s relations, an illuminated text, and a china statuette of the Infant Samuel, and stacked them in a corner of the empty studio, the place became almost a home from home.

Solitude can be very unsolitary if a man is in love.  George never even began to be bored.  The only thing that in any way troubled his peace was the thought that he was not accomplishing a great deal in the matter of helping Maud out of whatever trouble it was that had befallen her.  The most he could do was to prowl about roads near the castle in the hope of an accidental meeting.  And such was his good fortune that, on the fourth day of his vigil, the accidental meeting occurred.