was small and aquiline; not the face of a clever man, but clearly
the face of an aristocrat. He had the grand manner too, and that
quiet air of self-absorption which usually envelops the bearers of
historic names.

Dormer Colville watched him with a good-natured patience which
pointed, as clearly as his attitude and yawning indifference, to the
fact that he was not at Farlingford for his own amusement.

Presently he lounged back again toward the Marquis and stood behind
him.

"The wind is cold, Marquis," he said, pleasantly. "One of the
coldest spots in England. What would Mademoiselle say if I allowed
you to take a chill?"

De Gemosac turned and looked at him over his shoulder with a smile
full of pathetic meaning. He spread out his arms in a gesture
indicative of horror at the bleakness of the surroundings; at the
mournfulness of the decaying village; the dreary hopelessness of the
mouldering church and tombs.

"I was thinking, my friend," he said. "That was all. It is not
surprising . . . that one should think."

Colville heaved a sigh and said nothing. He was, it seemed,
essentially a sympathetic man; not of a thoughtful habit himself,
but tolerant of thought in others. It was abominably windy and
cold, although the corn was beginning to ripen; but he did not
complain. Neither did he desire to hurry his companion in any way.