"That's a chestnut," remarked Stafford, with a laugh. "But it's all

nonsense about its always being wet here; they tell me it's fine for

weeks together; that you can never tell any instant whether it's going

to clear up or not; that the weather will change like a woman--Good

heavens, look at that!"

He nodded to the east as he spoke.

Unnoticed by them, the sky had been clearing gradually, the mists

sweeping, dissolving, away; a breath of wind now wafted them, like a

veil thrown aside, from hill and valley and lake, and a scene of

unparalleled beauty lay revealed beneath them. The great lake shone

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like a sapphire; meadows of emerald, woods of darker green, hills of

purple and grey, silver and gold, rose from the bosom and the edge of

the great liquid jewel; the hills towering tier on tier into the

heavens of azure blue swept by clouds like drifting snow.

The two men gazed in silence; even Pottinger, to whom his 'osses

generally represented all that was beautiful in nature, gaped with

wide-open mouth.

"How's that for lofty, you unbeliever?" demanded Stafford. "Ever seen

anything like that before?"

Howard had been considerably startled, but, of course, he concealed his

amazed admiration behind a mask of cynicism.

"Rather a crib from Val Prinsep, isn't it, with a suggestion of a Drury

Lane pantomime about it? Good heavens! And there's the Fairy Palace all

complete," he added, as, the mists still rising, was discovered on the

slope of the other side a long and extremely ornate building, the pure

whiteness of which was reflected in the marvellous blue and opal of the

lake. "Can that be Sir Stephen's 'little place'?"

"I'm afraid it is," said Stafford. "It looks like the governor," he

added, with a touch of gravity.

"Well, it's very big, or, rather, long; and it's very white, but one's

bound to admit that it doesn't spoil the landscape," said Howard; "in

fact, standing there amidst the dark-green trees, with its pinnacles

and terraces, it's rather an ornament than otherwise. I suppose there

are flowers on those velvety lawns; and the interior, I'll wager my

life, matches the exterior. Fortunate youth to possess a Croesus for a

father:"

"Yes; I suppose the governor must be tremendously oafish," said

Stafford.

"The man who can build such a palace as that, and have the cool cheek

to call it 'a little place,' must in common decency be a

multi-millionaire."

Stafford nodded and smoked thoughtfully for a minute as Pottinger left

the horses' heads and climbed into his seat behind, and the

mail-phaeton moved along the road, which began to dip down at this

point.




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