"We're the fifth from his time," he indicated the chiseled stone. "Grove and Phil and myself and Dorothy. I don't know if you've met Dorothy. She's married to a chap named Hale. Lives in Victoria."
"A century since that stone was laid by a man's hands," Laska continued musingly. "Five generations. No, certainly I did not imagine one would find any such well-established ancestral heritage on this wild coast."
"What's a century?" Rod commented. "Greece and Egypt had philosophers and poets and noble ruins when our ancestors were wearing skins and killing their meat with clumsy spears."
The girl paid no heed to this.
"I knew this place was old the moment I stepped ashore," she continued. "I knew it must have a history. Who was this first enterprising Norquay, Rod? Where did he come from and how did he pitch on this spot so long ago as the place for his baronial hall? I wonder if you realize what a—an air of distinction this place has? As if it were so well established that all the crudities had been ironed out—an atmosphere like—well, of permanency and power."
"Well, it's home, and that's a good deal," Rod answered, a little doubtful of too eager response. "I don't know about the power, but it's permanent enough."
"You can hardly imagine other people dispossessing you and making it their home, eh?" Laska asked mischievously.
"No chance," Rod grinned at the suggestion. "I should say not."
"Tell me about the first Norquay," she wheedled. "I am sure it's vivid history. What was he—great—great—"
"Great-great-grandfather," Rod supplied. "Have you seen the family boneyard?"