he had just
been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a
spirit--queer effect--the slant of sunlight perhaps on her violet-grey
frock! And then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one
side. Old Jolyon thought: 'How pretty she is!' She did not speak,
neither did he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. She was
here no doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out
of it by vulgar explanation.

"Don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. Come
here, you!"

But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down
and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly:

"I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me."

"Oh, yes! I did."

He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'Do you think
one could miss seeing you?'

"They're all in Spain," he remarked abruptly. "I'm alone; I drove up for
the opera. The Ravogli's good. Have you seen the cow-houses?"

In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion he
moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and she moved beside
him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of French figures;
her dress, too, was a sort of French grey. He noticed two or three silver
threads in her amber-coloured hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of
hers, and that creamy-pale face. A sudden sidelong look from the velvety
brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from deep and far, from
another world almost, or at all events from some one not living very much
in this. And he said mechanically:

"Where are you living now?"

"I have a little flat in Chelsea."

He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear
anything; but the perverse word came out:

"Alone?"

She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his mind
that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this
coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor.

"All Alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. This one's a
pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!"

The fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own, was
standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. She looked round
at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from
her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the
straw. The scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in