Sweeping round a rise in the ground, they came into sudden sight of the
castle. Ancient and splendid it rose before them, its battlements
shining in the sun--a heritage of which any man might be proud.
Babbacombe waited for some word of admiration from his companion. But he
waited in vain. West was mute.
"What do you think of it?" he asked at last, determined to wring some
meed of appreciation from him, even though he stooped to ask for it.
"What--the house?" said West. "It's uncommonly like a primeval sort of
prison, to my idea. I've no doubt it boasts some very superior
dungeons."
The sting in the words reached Babbacombe, but without offence. Again,
more strongly, he was conscious of that glow of sympathy within him,
kindling to a flame of fellowship.
"It boasts better things than that," he said quietly, "as I hope you
will allow me to show you."
He was conscious of the piercing gaze of West's eyes, and, after a
moment, he deliberately turned his own to meet it.
"And if you find--as you probably soon will--that I make but a poor sort
of host," he said, "just remember, will you, that I like my guests to
please themselves, and secure your own comfort?"
For a second, West's grim mouth seemed to hesitate on the edge of a
smile--a smile that never developed.
"I wonder how soon you will tell me to go to the devil?" he said
cynically.
"Oh, I am a better host than that," said Babbacombe, with quiet humour.
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