The wonders of this prospect were entirely lost on little Ann, and
somewhat so on Courtier, deeply engaged in reconciling those two alien
principles, courtesy, and the love of looking at a pretty face. He was
wondering too what this girl of twenty, who had the self-possession of
a woman of forty, might be thinking. It was little Ann who broke the
silence.
"Auntie Babs, it wasn't a very strong house, was it?"
Courtier looked in the direction of her small finger. There was the
wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had
obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. Over one
corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but the
rest was open.
"He was a silly man to build it, wasn't he, Ann? That's why they call it
Ashman's Folly."
"Is he alive?"
"Not quite--it's just a hundred years ago."
"What made him build it here?"
"He hated women, and--the roof fell in on him."
"Why did he hate women?"
"He was a crank."
"What is a crank?"
"Ask Mr. Courtier."
Under this girl's calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find an
answer to that question.
"A crank," he said slowly, "is a man like me."
He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann's
dispassionate examining eyes.
"Is Uncle Eustace a crank?"
"You know now, Mr.
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