This time Dartmouth laughed aloud. "No, my dear," he said, "not even
Shakespearean slang. But let us investigate the mysteries of the castle
by all means. Lead, and I will follow."

"There are no mysteries," said Weir; "we have not even a ghost. Nor
have we a murder, or crime of any sort, to make us blush for our
family tree."

"Happy tree! Mine has a blush for every twig, and a drop curtain for
every branch. Thank God for the Penrhyn graft! Let us hope that
it will do as much good as its fairest flower has already done the
degenerate scion of all the Dartmouths. But, to the castle! I would
get through--I mean, I would gaze upon its antiquities as soon as
possible."

"This castle is very interesting, Mr. Dartmouth," replied Weir,
elevating her chin; "you have nothing so old in England."

"True, nor yet in Jerusalem, O haughtiest of Welsh maidens! I esteem
it a favor that I am not put below the salt."

Weir laughed. "What a tease you are! But you know that in your heart
your pride of family is as great as mine. Only it is the 'fad' of
the day to affect to despise birth and lineage. We of Wales are more
honest."

"Yes, it is your sign and seal, and it sits well upon you. I don't
affect to despise birth and lineage, my dear. If I could not trace
my ancestry back to the first tadpole who loafed his life away in the
tropical forests of old, I should be miserable."