"That is it."

"Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your
horse, Cadet?"

"Yes, and Brillon."

"He isn't necessary." Ian's brow clouded slightly.

"Absolutely necessary."

"A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why
have one at all?"

"I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes
as my camarade."

"Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you're a wonderful fellow,
but you'll never fit in quite."

"I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me." Ian smiled to himself.

"He has tasted it all--it's not quite satisfying--revolution next! What
a smash-up there'll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I
shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too."

Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to
say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little
church at Ridley: A gipsy's van on the crest of a common, and a girl
standing in the doorway.