“Yes—that’s all.” Brook laughed a little as though she had said something amusing.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Clare, naturally enough.
“Oh, nothing. It’s ridiculous—but it sounded funny—unfamiliar, I mean. My father has fallen a victim to knighthood, that’s all. The affliction came upon him some time ago, and his name is Adam—of all the names in the world.”
“It was the first,” observed Clare reassuringly. “It doesn’t sound badly either—Sir Adam. I beg his pardon for calling him ‘Mr.’” She laughed in her turn.
“Oh, he wouldn’t mind,” said Brook. “He’s not at all that sort. Do you know? I think you’ll like him awfully. He’s a fine old chap in his way, though he is a brewer. He’s much bigger than I am, but he’s rather odd, you know. Sometimes he’ll talk like anything, and sometimes he won’t open his lips. We aren’t at all alike in that way. I talk all the time, I believe—rain or shine. Don’t I bore you dreadfully sometimes? ”
“No—you never bore me,” answered Clare with perfect truth.
“I mean, when I talk as I did yesterday afternoon,” said Johnstone with a shade of irritation.
“Oh, that—yes! Please don’t begin again, and spoil our walk!”
But the walk was not destined to be a long one. A narrow, paved footway leads down from the old monastery to the shore, in zigzag, between low whitewashed walls, passing at last under some houses which are built across it on arches.
Just as they came in sight a tall old man emerged from this archway, walking steadily up the hill. He was tall and bony, with a long grey beard, shaggy bent brows, keen dark eyes, and an eagle nose. He wore clothes of rough grey woollen tweed, and carried a grey felt hat in one long hand.