Ian looked his nephew up and down with a cool kind of insolence as he passed, but did not make any salutation.
Gaston went straight to the castle.

He asked for his uncle, and was told that he had gone to Lady Belward.

He wandered to the library: it was empty.

He lit a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold's poems, opening at "Sohrab and Rustum," read it with a quick-beating heart, and then came to "Tristram and Iseult." He knew little of "that Arthur" and his knights of the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure of romance to him.

In Tennyson, he had got no further than "Locksley Hall," which, he said, had a right tune and wrong words; and "Maud," which "was big in pathos." The story and the metre of "Tristram and Iseult" beat in his veins.