steps, and a sneer, I sat down on the fallen beech-tree, lighted
a cigarette, and wondered why I had rejected the post of
call-boy. Then I started on the love-scene again.

"'Madam, it is said that I am a harsh man. I am not harsh to
every one. Better for me, perhaps, if I were; yet so God made
me.'"

"When do you open?"

"That's wrong, said I." 'Can you be gentle, then?' comes after
that. Now, however, that you have shattered the atmosphere I had
created- of course, I think you're absolutely beautiful, and, if
you'll wait a second, I'll get Pomfret's rug."

"I don't know what you mean, but thanks all the same, and if
Pomfret doesn't mind, this tree is rather grubby."

I got the rug and spread it on the fallen trunk for her. She was
what the Irish are popularly believed to call 'a shlip of a
ghirl,' clad in a dark blue riding-habit that fitted her slim
figure beautifully. No hat covered her thick, blue-black hair,
which was parted in the middle and loosely knotted behind. Here
and there a wisp of it was in the act of escaping. I watched
them greedily. Merry grey eyes and the softest colouring, with a
small red mouth, ready to join the eyes in their laughter if its
owner listed. She was wearing natty little patent-leather boots,
and her hunting hat and crop lay on the log by her side. She sat
down and began to pull the gloves off a pair of small brown
hands.