the lake rose noble summits, softly touched with mist which the sun
was fast dispelling. The sweetness of summer was in the air. So quiet
was it that every wing-rustle in the brake, every whisper of leaf to
leaf, made a distinct small voice; a sheep-dog barking over at Howtown
seemed close at hand.

This morning Annabel had no inclination to read, yet her face was not
expressive of the calm reflection which was her habit. She opened the
book upon her lap and glanced down a page or two, but without interest.
At length external things were wholly lost to her, and she gazed across
the water with continuance of solemn vision. Her face was almost
austere in this mood which had come upon her.

Someone was descending the path which led from the high road; it was a
step too heavy for Paula's, too rapid to be Mr. Newthorpe's. Annabel
turned her head and saw a young man, perhaps of seven-and-twenty,
dressed in a light walking-suit, with a small wallet hanging from his
shoulder and a stick in his hand. At sight of her he took off his cap
and approached her bare-headed.

'I saw from a quarter of a mile away,' he said, 'that someone was
sitting here, and I came down on the chance that it might be you.'

She rose with a very slight show of surprise, and returned his greeting
with calm friendliness.

'We were speaking of you at breakfast. My cousin couldn't tell us for
certain whether you were in England, though she knew you were in London
a month ago.'

'Miss Tyrrell is with you?' he asked, as if it were very unexpected.

'But didn't you know? She has been ill, and they sent her to us to
recruit.'

'Ah! I have been in Jersey for a month; I have heard nothing.'

'You were able to tear yourself from London in mid-season?'

'But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss Newthorpe?'

'We hear you progress in civilisation.'

'Well, I hope so. I've had a month of steady reading, and feel better
for it. I took a big chest of books to Jersey. But I hope Miss Tyrrell
is better?'

'Quite herself again. Shall we walk up to the house?'

'I have broken in upon your reading.'

She exhibited the volume; it was Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies.'

'Ah! you got it; and like it?'

'On the whole.'

'That is disappointing.'

Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter as they walked up from
the lake.

This Mr. Egremont had not the look of a man who finds his joy in the
life of Society. His clean-shaven face was rather bony, and i