Two men on ponies arrived as she spoke, and drew up beside the lovers.
The elder exhibited a cast of countenance somewhat remarkable. He was a thin, under-sized man with grey hair. His narrow, clean-shorn face sloped wedge-shaped to a pointed chin, and his mouth was lipless and very hard. Grotesquely large black eyebrows darkened his forehead, but they marked no arch. They were set in two patches or tufts, and moved freely up and down over a pair of rather dim grey eyes. The appearance of dimness, however, was not real, for Humphrey Baskerville possessed good sight. He was sixty-three years old, and a widower. He passed for a harsh, secretive man, and lived two miles from his elder brother, Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy. His household consisted of himself, his son Mark, and his housekeeper.
"Good morning, Uncle Humphrey," said Rupert, taking the bull by the horns. "You know Milly Luscombe, don't you? Morning, Mark."
Mr. Baskerville's black tufts went up and his slit of a mouth elongated.
"What's this then?" he asked. "Fooling up here with a girl—you? I hope you're not taking after your good-for-nothing brother?"
"Needn't fear that, uncle."
"How's Mr. Luscombe?" asked the old man abruptly, turning to the girl.
Milly feared nobody—not even this much-feared and mysterious person—and now she turned to him and patted his old pony's neck as she answered—
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Baskerville, and I'm sure he'd hope you are the same."
The tufts came down and he looked closely at her.