He was silent for a few minutes and Kit mused.  He thought there was some bitterness in Gerald’s humor; it looked as if Osborn had not been wise when he planned his son’s career without consulting him.  This, however, was typical.  Osborn was satisfied to give orders and expected others to accept his point of view.

“Well,” said Gerald, getting up, “I must be off.  Rather a bore to walk to Tarnside, and the trout will probably rise again if there’s wind enough to make a ripple, but I forgot to ask for sandwiches.”

“If you lunch with me, you could come back afterwards,” Kit suggested, and they set off down the hill.

When they reached Ashness, Gerald tried to hide his surprise.  Kit had made some changes in the old house and so far kept to the Spanish rule of meals.  Lunch was a late breakfast, well served in china and silver that were seldom used in Peter Askew’s time.  The low room had been cleverly painted and a casement commanding a view of the dale replaced the original narrow windows.  Specimens of ancient Indian pottery stood on the sideboard, and there were curtains of embroidered silk, feather-flowers, and silverwork that Kit had brought from Spanish America.  The things gave the lonely farmstead an exotic touch, but they implied the command of money and cultivated taste.

“You have a beautiful room,” Gerald remarked, when the meal was over.  “Don’t know that I’m much of a connoisseur, but some of the things look rather fine.”

“I’ll show them to you presently,” Kit replied and gave Gerald a small, dark cigar.  “I wonder how you’ll like the flavor.”

“Our club cigars are dear and good, but the best is nothing like this,” Gerald declared after a minute or two.  “Where did they come from?”

“They were given me in Cuba; I believe the make is not offered for public sale.  In a general way, Cuban tobacco is not what it was, but there are belts of soil that grow a leaf that can’t be equaled anywhere else.”

“I suppose they keep the crop for presidents and dictators.  The quality indicates it,” Gerald suggested, and Kit smiled.

Gerald tasted his black coffee.  “If it’s not bad form, where did you get this?  There’s nothing of the kind in Cumberland, and it’s better than the Turkish they give you in London.”

“It came from a Costa Rican hacienda, and was a gift.  I’ll get no more when the bag is done.  If you come back in a month, you’ll find me living in plain north-country style.”

“I imagine you made up for that while you were away,” said Gerald, who rose and went to the side-board.  “A curious little jar and obviously old!  Is this the kind of thing the Aztecs made?”

“I rather think it is Aztec, though I didn’t buy it in Mexico.  I gave about a pound for the jar and found a gold onza inside.”

“An onza? Oh, yes, an ounce!  The kind of coin some countries mint but very seldom use.  Something of a bargain!”