As they walked, Hugh could not help observing an odd peculiarity in the carriage of his companion.  It was, that, every few steps, he gave a backward and downward glance to the right, with a sweeping bend of his body, as if he were trying to get a view of the calf of his leg, or as if he fancied he felt something trailing at his foot.  So probable, from his motion, did the latter supposition seem, that Hugh changed sides to satisfy himself whether or not there was some dragging briar or straw annoying him; but no follower was to be discovered.

“You are a happy man, Mr. Sutherland,” said the guest, “to live under the same roof with that beautiful Miss Cameron.”

“Am I?” thought Hugh; but he only said, affecting some surprise: 

“Do you think her so beautiful?”

Funkelstein’s eyes were fixed upon him, as if to see the effect of his remark.  Hugh felt them, and could not conform his face to the indifference of his words.  But his companion only answered indifferently: 

“Well, I should say so; but beauty is not, that is not beauty for us.”

Whether or not there was poison in the fork of this remark, Hugh could only conjecture.  He made no reply.

As they walked about the precincts of the house, Funkelstein asked many questions of Hugh, which his entire ignorance of domestic architecture made it impossible for him to answer.  This seemed only to excite the questioner’s desire for information to a higher pitch; and as if the very stones could reply to his demands, he examined the whole range of the various buildings constituting the house of Arnstead “as he would draw it.”

“Certainly,” said he, “there is at least variety enough in the style of this mass of material.  There is enough for one pyramid.”

“That would be rather at the expense of the variety, would it not?” said Hugh, in spiteful response to the inconsequence of the second member of Funkelstein’s remark.  But the latter was apparently too much absorbed in his continued inspection of the house, from every attainable point of near view, to heed the comment.

“This they call the Ghost’s Walk,” said Hugh.

“Ah! about these old houses there are always such tales.”

“What sort of tales do you mean?”

“I mean of particular spots and their ghosts.  You must have heard many such?”

“No, not I.”

“I think Germany is more prolific of such stories.  I could tell you plenty.”

“But you don’t mean you believe such things?”

“To me it is equal.  I look at them entirely as objects of art.”

“That is a new view of a ghost to me.  An object of art?  I should have thought them considerably more suitable objects previous to their disembodiment.”

“Ah! you do not understand.  You call art painting, don’t you —­ or sculpture at most?  I give up sculpture certainly —­ and painting too.  But don’t you think a ghost a very effective object in literature now?  Confess:  do you not like a ghost-story very much?”