hrown aside, from hill and valley and lake, and a scene of
unparalleled beauty lay revealed beneath them. The great lake shone
like a sapphire; meadows of emerald, woods of darker green, hills of
purple and grey, silver and gold, rose from the bosom and the edge of
the great liquid jewel; the hills towering tier on tier into the
heavens of azure blue swept by clouds like drifting snow.

The two men gazed in silence; even Pottinger, to whom his 'osses
generally represented all that was beautiful in nature, gaped with
wide-open mouth.

"How's that for lofty, you unbeliever?" demanded Stafford. "Ever seen
anything like that before?"

Howard had been considerably startled, but, of course, he concealed his
amazed admiration behind a mask of cynicism.

"Rather a crib from Val Prinsep, isn't it, with a suggestion of a Drury
Lane pantomime about it? Good heavens! And there's the Fairy Palace all
complete," he added, as, the mists still rising, was discovered on the
slope of the other side a long and extremely ornate building, the pure
whiteness of which was reflected in the marvellous blue and opal of the
lake. "Can that be Sir Stephen's 'little place'?"

"I'm afraid it is," said Stafford. "It looks like the governor," he
added, with a touch of gravity.

"Well, it's very big, or, rather, long; and it's very white, but one's
bound to admit that it doesn't spoil the landscape," said Howard; "in
fact, standing there amidst the dark-green trees, with its pinnacles
and terraces, it's rather an ornament than otherwise. I suppose there
are flowers on those velvety lawns; and the interior, I'll wager my
life, matches the exterior. Fortunate youth to possess a Croesus for a
father:"

"Yes; I suppose the governor must be tremendously oafish," said
Stafford.

"The man who can build such a palace as that, and have the cool cheek
to call it 'a little place,' must in common decency be a
multi-millionaire."

Stafford nodded and smoked thoughtfully for a minute as Pottinger left
the horses' heads and climbed into his seat behind, and the
mail-phaeton moved along the road, which began to dip down at this
point.

"I know so little about my father," he said again.

"And yet the world knows so much," remarked Howard, throwing open his
waterproof and basking in the sun which shone as warmly and
unreservedly as if it had never heard of such a thing as rain. "One
can't take up the paper without seeing some mention of Sir Stephen
Orme'