“Some stunner, eh?” whispered Bat Scanlon to Ashton-Kirk.
“To be about is the best thing I can do,” said Miss Knowles. Then with a mischievous look, “Mr. Kirk will think I’m quite an invalid.”
She was really a splendid creature, large and beautifully formed; her complexion, her eyes, the great crown of yellow hair and the flowing white gown gave her the appearance, backed as she was by the grey trophy-hung wall, of having stepped out of a mediæval picture—the stately lady of some great baron, or the daughter of a belted earl.
“Invalids seem rather plenty hereabouts,” said Ashton-Kirk with a quiet smile. “But none of them at all resembled you, Miss Knowles.”
It seemed, to the eyes of Bat Scanlon, that a change came into the beautiful face—a subtle something, swift as the thought that occasioned it, and gone as quickly.
“You’ve been to the inn,” she said with a gesture of dismay. “Poor things; isn’t it dreadful? Some of them are really heart-breaking, they seem so helpless.”
“You’ve visited the inn yourself, then?” and there was a mild note of inquiry in the pleasant voice.
“Oh, no; but I ride sometimes among the hills of a morning. It’s a glorious place for that; and I meet them stalking slowly along, or being wheeled in their chairs. Perhaps it is the contrast between the vigour of the season and their wretched state, but at any rate I feel very bad about it all.”
“Mr. Kirk is a student of American history, and is interested in Schwartzberg and the builder,” Campe informed the girl. “I am about to show him over the place. Will you go along?”
“Indeed, yes.” Then to Ashton-Kirk, “I never get tired of the splendid old building; most of my time is spent in wandering about from room to room, imagining the history it does not possess,” with a smile which once more showed her beautiful teeth. “Oh, if it were only as rich in romance as it seems to be! If the good Count Hohenlo had only performed some of his deeds here.”