‘H’m! Ah! You know Mrs Wilson, do you? Nice woman, Mrs Wilson!’
He said this as if he meant the opposite.
‘Here,’ he went on—‘come with me. I’ll show you the way.’
I obeyed, and followed him along the bank of the stream.
‘What a curious bridge!’ I exclaimed, as we came in sight of an ancient structure lifted high in the middle on the point of a Gothic arch.
‘Yes, ain’t it? he said. ‘Curious? I should think so! And well it may be! It’s as old as the oak there at least. There’s a bridge now for a man like Sir Giles to call his own!’
‘He can’t keep it though,’ I said, moralizing; for, in carrying on the threads of my stories, I had come to see that no climax could last for ever.
‘Can’t keep it! He could carry off every stone of it if he liked.’
‘Then it wouldn’t be the bridge any longer.’
‘You’re a sharp one,’ he said.