en beneath him--a
fragrance which he recognised as that of roses; and this set him
thinking that it was the East that first cultivated roses; and amid
many memories of Persia and her poets, he threw himself into bed,
longing for sleep, for a darkness which, in a few hours, would pass
into a delicious consciousness of a garden under exquisite skies.

His awakening was even more delightful than he anticipated. The
fragrance that filled his room had a magic in it which he had never
known before, and there was a murmur of doves in the palms and in
the dovecot hanging above the dog-kennel. As he lay between sleeping
and waking, a pair of pigeons flew past his window, their shadows
falling across his bed. An Arab came to conduct him to his bath; and
after bathing he returned to his room, glad to get into its sunlight
again, and to loiter in his dressing, standing by the window,
admiring the garden below, full of faint perfume. The roses were
already in blossom, and through an opening in the ilex-trees he
caught sight of a meadow overflowing with shadow, the shadow of
trees and clouds, and of goats too, for there was a herd feeding and
trying to escape from the shepherd (a young man wearing a white
bournous and a red felt cap) towards the garden, where there were
bushes. On the left, amid a group of palms, were the stables, and
Owen thought of his horse feeding and resting after his long
journey. And there were Beclere's horses too. Owen had not seen them
yet; nor had he seen the dog, nor the pigeons. This oasis was full
of pleasant things to see and investigate, and he hurried through his
meal, longing to get into the open air and to gather some roses. All
about him sounds were hushing, and lights breaking, and shadows
floating, and every breeze was scented. As he followed the
finely-sanded walks, he was startled by a new scent, and with dilating
nostrils tried to catch it, tried to remember if it were mastick or
some resinous fir; and, walking on like one in a trance, he admired
Beclere's taste in the planting of this garden.

"A strange man, so refined and intelligent--why does he live here?...
Why not?"

Returning suddenly to the ilex-trees, which he liked better than the
masticks, or the tamarisks, or any fir, he sat down to watch the
meadow, thinking there was nothing in the world more beautiful than
the moving of shadows of trees and clouds over young grass, and
nothing more beautiful than a young shepherd playing a