The Western Barbarian had stood there, gazed, and felt no thrill.
"The privileged guest," said the grave historian, "passing in review the lineaments of the illustrious owners of Stukeley, as he slowly paces the sombre gallery, must be conscious of emotions of no ordinary character," etc., etc.

The Barbarian had been conscious of no such emotions.

And it was for this reason, and believing he MIGHT experience them if left there in solitude, with no distracting or extraneous humanity around him, it had been agreed between him and the Friendly Nobleman, who had fine Barbarian instincts, that as he--the Friendly Nobleman--and his family were to spend their holidays abroad, the Barbarian should be allowed, on the eve and day of Christmas, to stay at Stukeley alone.
"But," added his host, "you'll find it beastly lonely, and although I've told the housekeeper to look after you--you'd better go over to dine at Audley Friars, where there's a big party, and they know you, and it will be a deuced deal more amusing.

And--er--I say--you know--you're really NOT looking out for ghosts, and that sort of thing, are you?
You know you fellows don't believe in them--over there." And the Barbarian, assuring him that this was a part of his deficient emotions, it was settled then and there that he should come.

And that was why, on the 24th of December, the Barbarian found himself gazing hopefully on the landscape with his portmanteau at his feet, as he drove up the avenue.
The ravens did NOT croak ominously from the battlements as he entered.
And the housekeeper, although neither "stately" nor "tall," nor full of reminiscences of "his late lordship, the present Earl's father," was very sensible and practical.