She nodded, a sudden sharpness in her gray eyes.
"But that's not the common reason for the name. It's because he shuts himself up—in a house full of treasures. He's a great collector."
"Of works of art? You—don't need to be mad to do that! It seems to be one of the things that pays best nowadays—with all these Americans about. It's a way of investing your money. Doesn't he show them to anybody?"
"Nobody is allowed to go near him, or his house. He has built a high wall round his park, and dogs are let loose at night that tear you to pieces."
"Nice man! If it weren't for the dogs, I should brave him. In a small way, I'm a collector myself."
He smiled, and Lydia understood that the personal reference was thrown out as a feeler, in case she might be willing to push the conversation further. But she did not respond, although as he spoke she happened to notice that he wore a remarkable ring on his left hand, which seemed to illustrate his remark. An engraved gem?—Greek? Her eyes were quick for such things.
However, she was seized with shyness, and as she had now finished the packing of her brushes and paints, and the young man had elaborately fastened all the straps of the portable easel and its case, there was nothing for him to do but to stoop unwillingly for his soft hat which was lying on the grass. Then an idea struck him.
"I say, what are you going to do with all these things?"
"Carry them home." She smiled. "I am not a cripple."
"Mightn't I—mightn't I carry them for you?"