companion's intimacy. The novelist--old in the study of character and
trained by his long years of observation and experience in the world of
artificiality--was fascinated by the loveliness of the scene.

Dressed simply, in some soft clinging material of white, with a modestly
low-cut square at the throat, and sleeves that ended in filmy lace just
below the elbow--her lithe, softly rounded form, as she moved here and
there, had all the charm of girlish grace with the fuller beauty of
ripening womanhood. As she bent over the roses, or stooped to caress the
dog, in gentle comradeship, her step, her poise, her every motion, was
instinct with that strength and health that is seldom seen among those who
wear the shackles of a too conventionalized society. Her face,--warmly
tinted by the golden out-of-doors, firm fleshed and clear,--in its
unconscious naturalness and in its winsome purity was like the flowers she
stooped to kiss.

As he watched, the man noticed--with a smile of understanding--that she
kept rather to the side of the garden toward the house; where the artist,
at his easel by the big, north light, could not see her through the small
window in the end of the room; and where, hidden by the tall hedge, she
would not be noticed from Yee Kee's kitchen. Often, too, she paused to
listen, as if for any chance approaching step--appearing, to the fancy of
the man, as some creature from another world--poised lightly, ready to
vanish if any rude observer came too near. Soon,--after a cautious,
hesitating, listening look about,--she slipped, swift footed as a fawn,
across the garden, and--followed by the dog--disappeared into the latticed
rose-covered arbor against the southern wall.

With a chuckle to himself, Conrad Lagrange crept quietly along the hedge
to the door of her retreat.