ferred diplomacy to
war; and would adroitly evade rather than invite anything approaching a
scene, specially in the presence of a woman. Yet under existing
circumstances retreat had become, as he perceived, not only undignified
but useless. So in his best Oxford manner--a manner ornate, at that
period, and quite crushingly superior--he raised his shoulders, smiled
faintly, resignedly, and disposed himself in an easier attitude, saying:

"Better wait, perhaps, my dear Damaris. I would sooner risk losing those
precious letters than acquire a possible escort for you--and for
myself--down to the river and across the ferry."

And he threw a meaning glance over his shoulder, indicating the
obtrusive stranger.

So doing he received a disturbing impression. For seen thus, at close
quarters, not only was the said stranger notably, even astonishingly
good-looking, but he bore an arresting likeness in build, in carriage, in
expression to--

Tom paused perplexed, racking his brains.--For who, the deuce, was it?
Where had he seen, and that as he could have sworn quite recently, this
same forceful countenance lit by russet-grey eyes at once dauntless and
sad, deep-set, well apart, the lids of them smooth and delicately
moulded? The man's skin was tanned, by exposure, to a tint but a few
shades lighter than that of his gold-brown beard--a beard scrupulously
groomed, trimmed to a nicety and by no means deforming the lower part of
the face since the line of jaw and chin remained clearly discernible.

Tom turned away and looked absently at The Hard in its broad reposeful
frame of lawn and trees. The cool green foliage of a bank of
hydrangeas--running from the great ilexes to the corner of the
house--thick-set with discs of misty pink and blue blossom took his
fancy, as contrast to the beds of scarlet and crimson geranium naming in
the sun. But below any superficial sense of pleasure in outward things,
thought of that likeness--and likeness, dash it all, to whom?--still
vexed him as a riddle he failed to guess. Obligation to guess it, to find
the right answer, obsessed him as of vital interest and importance,
though, for the life of him, he could not tell why. His sense of
proportion, his social sense, his self-complacency, grew restive under
the pressure of it. He told himself it wasn't of the smallest
consequence, didn't matter a fig, yet continued to cudgel his memory.
And, all the while, the sound of deliberate footsteps crunchin