e like toy fortifications, a mile off perhaps;
and beyond that a few little fields and then the beginnings of Landport
suburb and the smoky cluster of the multitudinous houses. To the right
at the head of the harbour shallows the town of Porchester rose among
the trees. Mr. Hoopdriver's anxiety receded to some remote corner of his
brain and that florid half-voluntary imagination of his shared the stage
with the image of Jessie. He began to speculate on the impression he
was creating. He took stock of his suit in a more optimistic spirit,
and reviewed, with some complacency, his actions for the last four
and twenty hours. Then he was dashed at the thought of her infinite
perfections.

She had been observing him quietly, rather more closely during the last
hour or so. She did not look at him directly because he seemed always
looking at her. Her own troubles had quieted down a little, and her
curiosity about the chivalrous, worshipping, but singular gentleman in
brown, was awakening. She had recalled, too, the curious incident of
their first encounter. She found him hard to explain to herself. You
must understand that her knowledge of the world was rather less than
nothing, having been obtained entirely from books. You must not take a
certain ignorance for foolishness.

She had begun with a few experiments. He did not know French except
'sivver play,' a phrase he seemed to regard as a very good light
table joke in itself. His English was uncertain, but not such as books
informed her distinguished the lower classes. His manners seemed to her
good on the whole, but a trifle over-respectful and out of fashion. He
called her I Madam' once. He seemed a person of means and leisure, but
he knew nothing of recent concerts, theatres, or books. How did he spend
his time? He was certainly chivalrous, and a trifle simpleminded. She
fancied (so much is there in a change of costume) that she had never met
with such a man before. What COULD he be?

"Mr. Benson," she said, breaking a silence devoted to landscape.

He rolled over and regarded her, chin on knuckles.

"At your service."

"Do you paint? Are you an artist?"

"Well." Judicious pause. "I should hardly call myself a Nartist, you
know. I DO paint a little. And sketch, you know--skitty kind of things."

He plucked and began to nibble a blade of grass. It was really not
so much lying as his quick imagination that prompted him to add, "In
Papers, you know, and all that."