"Indeed I didn't, nor, I should think, did any one else. I thought you
had nigger blood in you, and I have heard people say that you came from
the West Indies. But what does it matter if you are a gypsy? There is no
disgrace in being one."

"No disgrace, certainly," rejoined the millionaire, leaning forward and
linking his hands together, while he stared at the ground. "I am proud
of having the gentle Romany blood. All the same I prefer the West Indian
legend, for I don't want any of my civilized friends to know that I am
Ishmael Hearne, born and bred in a tent."

"Well, that's natural, Pine. What would Garvington say?"

"Oh, curse Garvington!"

"Curse the whole family by all means," retorted Miss Greeby coolly.

Pine looked up savagely, "I except my wife."

"Naturally. You always were uxorious."

"Perhaps," said Pine gloomily, "I'm a fool where Agnes is concerned."

Miss Greeby quite agreed with this statement, but did not think it worth
while to indorse so obvious a remark. She sat down in her turn, and
taking Lambert's cigarette case, which she had retained by accident, out
of her pocket, she prepared to smoke. The two were entirely alone in the
fairy dell, and the trees which girdled it were glorious with vivid
autumnal tints. A gentle breeze sighing through the wood, shook down
yew, crisp leaves on the woman's head, so that she looked like Danae in