in Europe
was better kept. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, of course, were in clover. It
followed that Anthony Lyveden had much time to himself. Naturally
companionable, he spent most of this with his colleagues; nevertheless,
there were days when he liked to change his clothes, call Patch, and
walk off into the forest with only the little dog for company. It was
then that he could think of my lady....

He always associated her with the open air. Never once did he picture
her cribbed in a room. For him she was a creature of the country-side,
sun-kissed, folded in the arms of the wind, with the pure red wine of
Nature singing through her delicate veins.... Thinking of veins, he
recalled the faint exquisite blue of those which lay pencilled upon the
back of her cold little hand. He remembered the line of them perfectly.

The vein, then, gave him the hand; the hand, the arm; the arm, the
shoulder. He reconstructed her piecemeal with a rare faithfulness,
till by the time he was on the moorland overlooking the smiling valley,
where the railroad went shining away into the old world, there stood
his lady beside him, complete, glorious, the freshening breeze behind
her moulding her soft raiment to the shape of her beautiful limbs, her
eyes shining, her lips parted, one little hand touching her dark
hair--just Valerie.

So for a brief second she stood by his side. Once she swayed towards
him before the mirror of Imagination shivered, but only once. Mostly
it flew to flinders almost before she was come.

Anthony hungered for a sight of the girl desperately. Had this been
offered him upon the understanding that he appeared to her in livery,
he would still have jumped at the chance. From this may be gauged the
degree of his hunger. He was, in fact, starving.

Consequently, when one ripe September morning--all dew and mellow
sunshine and the lowing of cows--Betty tapped a letter with a
significant forefinger and announced that it contained an invitation to
a quiet little dance, Anthony, amid the general enthusiasm, displayed
no more interest than politeness demanded and no curiosity at all.

Betty addressed herself to him.

"It's from Lady Touchstone. I was at school with her niece. They live
at Bell Hammer, a beautiful place about five miles from here. You're
included, of course. I saw her last week, so she knows all about you.
It's because of her niece's birthday. Only about eight couples, she
says, and no stranger