"You think they would not be pleased to see me?" she flashed.

"They are ridiculously old-fashioned," he said. "Not your type at all."

"But I love curiosities," she returned, smiling now. "I am not
absolutely set upon any type. All human beings are a delightful study.
If you know them, you must bring them to see me then some day."

But at this John Derringham laughed outright.

"If you could picture them, you would laugh, too," he said. "There is
someone, though, whom I do want you to know, who lives close here--my
old Oxford professor of Greek, Arnold Carlyon. He is a study who will
repay you. The most whimsical cynic, as well as one of the greatest
scholars I have ever come across in my life. I promised him to-day that
I would persuade you to let me take you to see him."

"How enchanting," she replied with enthusiasm. "And we must make him
come here. When shall we go? To-morrow?"

"No, I said Monday or Tuesday--with your permission," and he bent over
her with caressing homage.

"Of course--when you will. That, then, is where you were this morning.
But how did you get back through the park?" she asked. "There is no
opening at that side whatever. It is all blocked by the wicked La Sarthe
Chase."

"I came round the edge," he said, and felt annoyed--he hated lying--"and
then turned upwards. I wanted to see the boundaries."