calls it my yearly
retreat."

"I'd be pleased if you'd take the fish," he remarked; "I guess I'd better
be moving--I've got to see the priest."

"Why, you haven't stopped a minute," she protested, "not long enough to
smoke one of your little cigarettes. Visitors are too scarce here to let
them go off like that."

At the implied suggestion he half-mechanically rolled a cigarette. The
chair he found was comfortable; he was very weary. He sat smoking and
indifferently studying Lettice Hollidew. She was, to-night, prettier than
he had remembered her. She was telling him, in a voice that rippled cool
and low like the stream, of Mrs. Caley's indisposition. Her face, now
turned toward the fields, was dipped in the dreaming radiance; now it was
blurred, vaguely appealing, disturbing. Her soft youth was creamy,
distilling an essence, a fragrance, like a flower; it was one with the
immaculate flood of light bathing the world in virginal beauty.

A new interest stirred within him, a satisfaction grew from her palpable
liking for him, and was reflected in the warmer tones of his replies; a
new pain ordered his comments. The situation, too, appealed to him; his
instinct responded to the obvious implications of the position in the
exact degree of his habit of mind. The familiar, professional gallantry
took possession of him, directing the sensuality to which he abandoned
himself.

He moved from the chair to the step by her side. Nearer she was more
appealing still; a lovely shadow dwelt at the base of her throat; the
simple dress took the soft curves of her girlish body, stirred with her
breathing. Her hands lay loosely in her lap, and the impulse seized him to
take them up, but he repressed it ... for the moment.

"I saw Buckley Simmons, yesterday," she informed him, "his face is nearly
well. He wanted to come out here, but I wouldn't let him. He wants to
marry me," she continued serenely; "I told him I didn't think I'd every
marry."

"But you will--some lucky, young man."

"I don't think I like young men, that is," she qualified carefully, "not
very young. I like men who are able to act ever so quickly, no matter what
occurs, and they must be terribly brave. I like them best if they have
been unfortunate; something in me wants to make up to them for--for any
loss," she paused, gazing at him with an elevated chin, serious lips,
intent eyes.

This, he told himself complacently, was but a description of himself, as
pointe