at's not the common reason for the name. It's because he shuts
himself up--in a house full of treasures. He's a great collector."

"Of works of art? You--don't need to be mad to do that! It seems to be
one of the things that pays best nowadays--with all these Americans
about. It's a way of investing your money. Doesn't he show them to
anybody?"

"Nobody is allowed to go near him, or his house. He has built a high wall
round his park, and dogs are let loose at night that tear you to pieces."

"Nice man! If it weren't for the dogs, I should brave him. In a small
way, I'm a collector myself."

He smiled, and Lydia understood that the personal reference was thrown
out as a feeler, in case she might be willing to push the conversation
further. But she did not respond, although as he spoke she happened to
notice that he wore a remarkable ring on his left hand, which seemed
to illustrate his remark. An engraved gem?--Greek? Her eyes were quick
for such things.

However, she was seized with shyness, and as she had now finished the
packing of her brushes and paints, and the young man had elaborately
fastened all the straps of the portable easel and its case, there was
nothing for him to do but to stoop unwillingly for his soft hat which was
lying on the grass. Then an idea struck him.

"I say, what are you going to do with all these things?"

"Carry them home." She smiled. "I am not a cripple."

"Mightn't I--mightn't I carry them for you?"

"Thank you. My way lies in quite another direction. Good-night."

She held out a shapely hand. He took it, lifted his hat, and departed.

As soon as he was safely past a jutting corner of the road Lydia, instead
of going home, lazily sat down again on a rock to think about what had
happened. She was perfectly aware that--considering the whole interview
had only taken ten minutes--she had made an impression upon the young
man. And as young men of such distinguished appearance were not common in
the Whitebeck neighbourhood, the recollection of all those little signs
in look and manner which had borne witness to the stranger's discreet
admiration of her was not at all disagreeable.

He was not a native--that she was sure of. She guessed him a Londoner.
"Awfully good clothes!--London clothes. About thirty, I should think? I
wonder what he does. He can't be rich, or he wouldn't be bicycling. He
did up those straps as though he were used to them; but he can't be an
artist, or he'd have