hud of furniture overthrown, a
woman's voice, and silence. Then, while Miriam's legs shook and her back
was chilled, she heard a sweet, clear whistling and the sound of feet. A
minute later George Halkett issued from the trees.

"George!" she said, and half put out her hand.

He stood before her, his mouth still pursed for whistling, and jerked
his head over his shoulder.

"You heard that?"

"Yes. Oh, yes!"

"I'm sorry."

"It's my fault for being here. Was it--what was it?"

His eyes narrowed and she could see a blue slit between lashes so thick
that they seemed furred.

"My father. He's ill. I'm sorry you heard."

"Will he--do it again?"

"He's quiet now and Mrs. Biggs can manage him."

"Isn't she afraid?"

"Not she." His thoughts plainly left old Halkett and settled themselves
on her. "Are you?"

"Yes." She shuddered. "But then, I'm not used to it."

He was beating his leggings with his cane. "There's a lot in use," he
said vaguely. He was a tall man, and on his tanned face were no signs of
the excesses imputed to him, perhaps out of vainglory, by Mrs. Samson. A
brown moustache followed the line of a lip which was sometimes pouted
sullenly, yet with a simplicity which could be lovable. The hair was
short and crisp on his round head.

Miriam watched his shapely hands playing with the cane, and she looked
up to find his eyes attentively on her. She smiled without haste. She
had a gift for smiling. Her mouth stretched delicately, her lips parted
to show a gleam of teeth, opened widely for a flash, and closed again.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked her, and there was a faint glow in
his cheeks.

"That wasn't laughing. That was smiling. When I laugh I say ha, ha!"

"Well, you looked pleased about something," he mumbled.

"No, I was just being friendly to you."

He took a step nearer. "That's all very well. Last time I met you you
hadn't a look for me, and you saw me right enough."

"Yes, George, I saw you, but I wasn't in the mood for you."

"And now you are?"

She looked down. "Do you like people always to be the same? I don't."
Laughter bubbled in her voice. "I get moments, George, when my thoughts
are so--so celestial that though I see earthly things like you, I don't
understand them. They're like shadows, like trees walking." She pointed
a finger. "Tell me where that comes from!"

He looked about him. "What?"

She addressed the stream. "He doesn't know the foundation of the English