“Dear me!” I said when the list was finished, “he seems to have been born with a whole case of gold spoons in his mouth.  I hope one of them will not choke him,” adding:  “Perhaps he will be unlucky in love.”

“That’s just where he is most lucky of all,” answered the young lady to whom I was talking—­it was Scroope’s fiancee, Miss Manners—­“for he is engaged to a lady that, I am told, is the loveliest, sweetest, cleverest girl in all England, and they absolutely adore each other.”

“Dear me!” I repeated.  “I wonder what Fate has got up its sleeve for Lord Ragnall and his perfect lady-love?”

I was doomed to find out one day.

So it came about that when, on the following morning, I was asked if I would like to see the wonders of Ragnall Castle, I answered “Yes.”  Really, however, I wanted to have a look at Lord Ragnall himself, if possible, for the account of his many perfections had impressed the imagination of a poor colonist like myself, who had never found an opportunity of setting his eyes upon a kind of human angel.  Human devils I had met in plenty, but never a single angel—­at least, of the male sex.  Also there was always the possibility that I might get a glimpse of the still more angelic lady to whom he was engaged, whose name, I understood, was the Hon. Miss Holmes.  So I said that nothing would please me more than to see this castle.

Thither we drove accordingly through the fine, frosty air, for the month was December.  On reaching the castle, Mr. Scroope was told that Lord Ragnall, whom he knew well, was out shooting somewhere in the park, but that, of course, he could show his friend over the place.  So we went in, the three of us, for Miss Manners, to whom Scroope was to be married very shortly, had driven us over in her pony carriage.  The porter at the gateway towers took us to the main door of the castle and handed us over to another man, whom he addressed as Mr. Savage, whispering to me that he was his lordship’s personal attendant.

I remember the name, because it seemed to me that I had never seen anyone who looked much less savage.  In truth, his appearance was that of a duke in disguise, as I imagine dukes to be, for I never set eyes on one.  His dress—­he wore a black morning cut-away coat—­was faultless.  His manners were exquisite, polite to the verge of irony, but with a hint of haughty pride in the background.  He was handsome also, with a fine nose and a hawk-like eye, while a touch of baldness added to the general effect.  His age may have been anything between thirty-five and forty, and the way he deprived me of my hat and stick, to which I strove to cling, showed, I thought, resolution of character.  Probably, I reflected to myself, he considers me an unusual sort of person who might damage the pictures and other objects of art with the stick, and not seeing his way how to ask me to give it up without suggesting suspicion, has hit upon the expedient of taking my hat also.