mpleted the picture. The mingling, in the dress, of extreme
simplicity with the cunningest artifice, and the greater daring and _joie
de vivre_ which it expressed, as compared with the dress of pre-war days,
made it characteristic and symbolic:--a dress of the New Time.

Geoffrey lay on the grass beside her, feasting his eyes upon
her--discreetly. Since when had English women grown so beautiful? At all
the weddings and most of the dances he had lately attended, the brides
and the _debutantes_ had seemed to him of a loveliness out of all
proportion to that of their fore-runners in those far-off days before the
war. And when a War Office mission, just before the Armistice, had taken
him to some munition factories in the north, he had been scarcely less
seized by the comeliness of the girl-workers:--the long lines of them in
their blue overalls, and the blue caps that could scarcely restrain the
beauty and wealth of pale yellow or red-gold hair beneath. Is there
something in the rush and flame of war that quickens old powers and
dormant virtues in a race? Better feeding and better wages among the
working-classes--one may mark them down perhaps as factors in this
product of a heightened beauty. But for these exquisite women of the
upper class, is it the pace at which they have lived, unconsciously, for
these five years, that has brought out this bloom and splendour?--and
will it pass as it has come?

Questions of this kind floated through his mind as he lay looking at
Helena, melting rapidly into others much more peremptory and personal.

"Are you soon going up to Town?" he asked her presently. His voice seemed
to startle her. She returned evidently with difficulty from thoughts of
her own. He would have given his head to read them.

"No," she said hesitatingly. "Why should we? It is so jolly down here.
Everything's getting lovely."

"I thought you wanted a bit of season! I thought that was part of your
bargain with Philip?"

"Yes--but"--she laughed--"I didn't know how nice Beechmark was."

His sore sense winced.

"Doesn't Philip want you to go?"

"Not at all. He says he gets much more work done in Town, without Mrs.
Friend and me to bother him--"

"He puts it that way?"

"Politely! And it rests him to come down here for Sundays. He loves
the riding."

"I shouldn't have thought the Sundays were much rest?"

"Ah, but they're going to be!" she said eagerly. "We're not going to have
another party for a whole mo