smiling to herself with pleasure; Lady Babs looked so
pretty--prettier asleep even than awake! And at sight of that beautiful
creature, sleeping and smiling in her sleep, the earthy, hothouse fumes
steeping the mind of one perpetually serving in an atmosphere unsuited
to her natural growth, dispersed. Beauty, with its queer touching power
of freeing the spirit from all barriers and thoughts of self, sweetened
the maid's eyes, and kept her standing, holding her breath. For Barbara
asleep was a symbol of that Golden Age in which she so desperately
believed. She opened her eyes, and seeing the maid, said:

"Is it eight o'clock, Stacey?"

"No, but Lady Casterley wants you to walk with her."

"Oh! bother! I was having such a dream!"

"Yes; you were smiling."

"I was dreaming that I could fly."

"Fancy!"

"I could see everything spread out below me, as close as I see you; I
was hovering like a buzzard hawk. I felt that I could come down exactly
where I wanted. It was fascinating. I had perfect power, Stacey."

And throwing her neck back, she closed her eyes again. The sunlight
streamed in on her between the half-drawn curtains.

The queerest impulse to put out a hand and stroke that full white throat
shot through the maid's mind.

"These flying machines are stupid," murmured Barbara; "the pleasure's in
one's body---wings!"

"I can see Lady Casterley in the garden."

Barbara sprang out of bed. Close by the statue of Diana Lady Casterley
was standing, gazing down at some flowers, a tiny, grey figure. Barbara
sighed. With her, in her dream, had been another buzzard hawk, and she
was filled with a sort of surprise, and queer pleasure that ran down her
in little shivers while she bathed and dressed.

In her haste she took no hat; and still busy with the fastening of her
linen frock, hurried down the stairs and Georgian corridor, towards the
garden. At the end of it she almost ran into the arms of Courtier.

Awakening early this morning, he had begun first thinking of Audrey
Noel, threatened by scandal; then of his yesterday's companion, that
glorious young creature, whose image had so gripped and taken possession
of him. In the pleasure of this memory he had steeped himself. She was
youth itself! That perfect thing, a young girl without callowness.

And his words, when she nearly ran into him, were: "The Winged Victory!"

Barbara's answer was equally symbolic: "A buzzard hawk! Do you know, I
dreamed we were fly