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.Courtier, what Ann thinks of you.

You think a good deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you, Ann ?" "Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her.

But Courtier gazed sideways--over her hatless head.
His exhilaration was increasing every moment.