but he is too kind to speak the truth. Does the girl
expect to be immortal? he is saying to himself, and trying to conjure up
a picture--the picture of Jean Goring, _old_! Ah, well, it will be only
my husk that alters; and even when it's withered and dry there'll be
_this_ comfort; you'll be withered, too! We shall all grow old
together, and we'll be friends still, and cling together, and
sympathise, and think the young so--crude!" She laughed, and pointed
forward with an outstretched hand.

"Here's the tennis-lawn, and there's the fernery, and here's a prosaic
gravel path dividing the two. You've seen fifty thousand other gardens
like it before. Now shut your eyes--keep them shut, and let me guide
you for the next two minutes. Then prepare for a surprise."

Vanna shut her eyes obediently, and surrendered herself to the guiding
hand. For some yards the path stretched smooth and straight beneath her
feet, then suddenly it curved and took a downward dope. At the same
time the well-rolled smoothness disappeared, and her feet tripped
against an occasional stone. The second time this happened a hand
touched her shoulder with the lightest, most passing of pressures--that
was Piers Rendall, who had evidently crossed the path at the opposite
side from Jean, to be a further security to her steps. Vanna flushed,
and trod with increased care, but the path was momentarily becoming more
difficult, and despite all her precautions she slipped again, more
heavily than before. This time the hand grasped her arm without
pretence, and at the same moment she stopped short, and cried quickly:

"Oh, it's too rough. I can't go on. I'm going to open my eyes."

"Open!" cried Jean's voice dramatically, and with a hand placed on each
elbow twisted her round to face the west.

Vanna gave a cry of delight, and stood transfixed with admiration. The
commonplace white house with its tennis-lawn and beds of geraniums had
disappeared; she stood on a path looking across a narrow glen
illuminated by sunshine, which streamed down through the delicate
foliage of a grove of aspens. The dappled light danced to and fro over
carpets of softest moss, through which peeped patches of violets and
harebells. The trunks of the aspens shone silvery white; here and there
on the crest of the hills stood a grave Scotch fir, grey-blue against
the green. From below came the melodious splash of water; the faint hum
and drone of insect life rose from th