Deborah had carried out into the garden--dainty linen and
silverware, and flowered china dishes heaped with cakes of which only
Scotswomen know the secrets. The sun, dropping behind Battery Point,
slanted its rays down through the pine-trunks and over the fiery massed
plumes of rhododendrons. Scents of jasmine and of shorn grass mingled
with the clean breath of the sea borne to the garden wall on a high tide
tranquil and clear--so clear that the eye following for a hundred yards
the lines of the cove could see the feet of the cliffs where they
rested, three fathoms down, on lily-white sand. Miss Bracy adored these
clean depths. She had missed much that life could have given; but at
least she had found a life comely and to her mind. She had sacrificed
much; but at times she forgot how much in contemplating the modest
elegance of the altar.

She wore, this evening, a gown of purplish silk, with a light cashmere
scarf about her shoulders. Nothing could make her a tall woman; but her
grey hair, dressed high _a l'imperatrice_, gave her dignity at least,
and an air of old-fashioned distinction. And she was one of those few
and fortunate ladies who never need to worry about the appearance of
their cavaliers. Mr. Frank--six feet of him, without reckoning a slight
stoop--always satisfied the eye; his grey flannel suit fitted loosely
but fitted well; his wide-brimmed straw hat was as faultless as his
linen; his necktie had a negligent neatness; you felt sure alike and at
once of his bootmaker and his shirtmaker; and his fresh complexion, his
prematurely white hair, his strong well-kept hands, completed the
impression of cleanliness for its own sake, of a careful physical cult
as far as possible removed from foppery.

This may have been in Miss Bracy's mind when she began: "I daresay he
will be fairly presentable, to look at. That unfortunate woman had at
least an art of dressing--a quiet taste too, quite extraordinary in one
of her station. I often wondered where she picked it up."

Mr. Frank winced. Until the news of his wife's death came, a fortnight
ago, her name had not been spoken between them for years. That he and
his cousin regarded her very differently he knew; but while silence was
kept it had been possible to ignore the difference. Now it surprised
him that speech should hurt so; and, at the same moment, that his cousin
should not divine how sorely it hurt. After all _he_ was the saddest
evidence of poo