"That's very interesting," said Copplestone. "Does the present Greyle
want to buy?"

The landlady picked up a piece of sewing and sat down in a chair which
seemed to be purposely placed so that she could keep an eye on the
adjacent bar-parlour on one side and the hall on the other.

"I don't know much about what the present Squire would like," she said.
"Nobody does. He's a newcomer, and nobody knows anything about him. You
saw him this afternoon?"

"I met a young lady on the sands who turned out to be his cousin, and he
came up while I was talking to her," replied Copplestone. "Yes, I saw
him. I'm afraid Mr. Stafford, who came in here with me, you know,
offended him," he continued, and gave Mrs. Wooler an account of what had
happened. "Is he rather--touchy?" he concluded.

"I don't know that he is," she said. "No one sees much of him. You see
he's a stranger: although he's a Greyle, he's not a Scarhaven man. Of
course, I know all his family history--I'm Scarhaven born and bred. In my
time there have been three generations of Greyles. The first one I knew
was this Squire's grandfather, old Mr. Stephen Greyle: he died when I was
a girl in my 'teens. He had three sons and no daughters. The three sons
were all different in their tastes and ideas; the eldest, Stephen John,
who came into the estates on his father's death, was a real home bird--he
never left Scarhaven for more than a day or two at a time all his life.
And he never married--he was a real old bachelor, almost a woman-hater.
The next one, Marcus, went out to America and settled there--he was the
father of this present Squire, Mr. Marston Greyle. Then there was the