It was this strange individuality that affected all who saw it.  For, however changed were those within its walls, whoever were its inheritors or inhabiters, Scrooby Priory never changed nor altered its own character.  However incongruous or ill-assorted the portraits that looked from its walls,—­so ill met that they might have flown at one another’s throats in the long nights when the family were away,—­the great house itself was independent of them all.  The be-wigged, be-laced, and be-furbelowed of one day’s gathering, the round-headed, steel-fronted, and prim-kerchiefed congregation of another day, and even the black-coated, bare-armed, and bare-shouldered assemblage of to-day had no effect on the austerities of the Priory.  Modern houses might show the tastes and prepossessions of their dwellers, might have caught some passing trick of the hour, or have recorded the augmented fortunes or luxuriousness of the owner, but Scrooby Priory never!  No one had dared even to disturb its outer rigid integrity; the breaches of time and siege were left untouched.  It held its calm indifferent sway over all who passed its low-arched portals, and the consul was fain to believe that he—­a foreign visitor—­was no more alien to the house than its present owner.

“I’m expecting a very charming compatriot of yours to-morrow,” said Lord Beverdale as they drove from the station together.  “You must tell me what to show her.”

“I should think any countrywoman of mine would be quite satisfied with the Priory,” said the consul, glancing thoughtfully towards the pile dimly seen through the park.

“I shouldn’t like her to be bored here,” continued Beverdale.  “Algy met her at Rome, where she was occupying a palace with her mother—­they’re very rich, you know.  He found she was staying with Lady Minever at Hedham Towers, and I went over and invited her with a little party.  She’s a Miss Desborough.”

The consul gave a slight start, and was aware that Beverdale was looking at him.

“Perhaps you know her?” said Beverdale.

“Just enough to agree with you that she is charming,” said the consul.  “I dined with them, and saw them at the consulate.”

“Oh yes; I always forget you are a consul.  Then, of course, you know all about them.  I suppose they’re very rich, and in society over there?” said Beverdale in a voice that was quite animated.

It was on the consul’s lips to say that the late Mr. Desborough was an Englishman, and even to speak playfully of their proposed quest, but a sudden instinct withheld him.  After all, perhaps it was only a caprice, or idea, they had forgotten,—­perhaps, who knows?—­that they were already ashamed of.  They had evidently “got on” in English society, if that was their real intent, and doubtless Miss Desborough, by this time, was quite as content with the chance of becoming related to the Earl of Beverdale, through his son and heir, Algernon, as if they had found a real Lord Desborough among their own relatives.  The consul knew that Lord Beverdale was not a rich man, that like most men of old family he was not a slave to class prejudice; indeed, the consul had seen very few noblemen off the stage or out of the pages of a novel who were.  So he said, with a slight affectation of authority, that there was as little doubt of the young lady’s wealth as there was of her personal attractions.