“The blank wall of a strange house is like the old green curtain at the theatre. It may rise for you any moment and show you—what? Now what is there at Nab Grange?”
“A lot of country bumpkins, I expect,” growled Stabb.
“No, no,” Wilbraham protested. “I’ll tell you, if you like——”
“What’s there?” Lynborough pursued. “I don’t know. You don’t know—no, you don’t, Roger, and you probably wouldn’t even if you were inside. But I like not knowing—I don’t want to know. We won’t visit at the Grange, I think. We will just idealise it, Cromlech.” He cast his queer elusive smile at his friend.
“Bosh!” said Stabb. “There’s sure to be a woman there—and I’ll be bound she’ll call on you!”
“Because you’re a lord,” said Stabb, scorning any more personal form of flattery.
“That fortuitous circumstance should, in my judgment, rather afford me protection.”
“If you come to that, she’s somebody herself.” Wilbraham’s knowledge would bubble out, for all the want of encouragement.
“Everybody’s somebody,” murmured Lynborough—“and it is a very odd arrangement. Can’t be regarded as permanent, eh, Cromlech? Immortality by merit seems a better idea. And by merit I mean originality. Well—I sha’n’t know the Grange, but I like to look at it. The way I picture her——”