Betty Vanderpoel’s walk back to Stornham did not, long though it was, give her time to follow to its end the thread of her thoughts.  Mentally she walked again with her uncommunicative guide, through woodpaths and gardens, and stood gazing at the great blind-faced house.  She had not given the man more than an occasional glance until he had told her his name.  She had been too much absorbed, too much moved, by what she had been seeing.  She wondered, if she had been more aware of him, whether his face would have revealed a great deal.  She believed it would not.  He had made himself outwardly stolid.  But the thing must have been bitter.  To him the whole story of the splendid past was familiar even if through his own life he had looked on only at gradual decay.  There must be stories enough of men and women who had lived in the place, of what they had done, of how they had loved, of what they had counted for in their country’s wars and peacemakings, great functions and law-building.  To be able to look back through centuries and know of one’s blood that sometimes it had been shed in the doing of great deeds, must be a thing to remember.  To realise that the courage and honour had been lost in ignoble modern vices, which no sense of dignity and reverence for race and name had restrained—­must be bitter—­bitter!  And in the role of a servant to lead a stranger about among the ruins of what had been—­that must have been bitter, too.  For a moment Betty felt the bitterness of it herself and her red mouth took upon itself a grim line.  The worst of it for him was that he was not of that strain of his race who had been the “bad lot.”  The “bad lot” had been the weak lot, the vicious, the self-degrading.  Scandals which had shut men out from their class and kind were usually of an ugly type.  This man had a strong jaw, a powerful, healthy body, and clean, though perhaps hard, eyes.  The First Man of them, who hewed his way to the front, who stood fierce in the face of things, who won the first lands and laid the first stones, might have been like him in build and look.

“It’s a disgusting thing,” she said to herself, “to think of the corrupt weaklings the strong ones dwindled down to.  I hate them.  So does he.”

There had been many such of late years, she knew.  She had seen them in Paris, in Rome, even in New York.  Things with thin or over-thick bodies and receding chins and foreheads; things haunting places of amusement and finding inordinate entertainment in strange jokes and horseplay.  She herself had hot blood and a fierce strength of rebellion, and she was wondering how, if the father and elder brother had been the “bad lot,” he had managed to stand still, looking on, and keeping his hands off them.

The last gold of the sun was mellowing the grey stone of the terrace and enriching the green of the weeds thrusting themselves into life between the uneven flags when she reached Stornham, and passing through the house found Lady Anstruthers sitting there.  In sustenance of her effort to keep up appearances, she had put on a weird little muslin dress and had elaborated the dressing of her thin hair.  It was no longer dragged back straight from her face, and she looked a trifle less abject, even a shade prettier.  Bettina sat upon the edge of the balustrade and touched the hair with light fingers, ruffling it a little becomingly.