“It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. It was a haunted place. "Thames Darrell once destroyed," pursued Jonathan. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English.
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