Mrs Dewsbury's lawn was held by those who knew it the loveliest in Surrey. The smooth andspringy sward that stretched in front of the house was all composed of a tiny yellow clover. It gavebeneath the foot like the pile on velvet. One's gaze looked forth from it upon the endless middledistances of the oak-clad Weald, with the uncertain blue line of the South Downs in the background.Ridge behind ridge, the long, low hills of paludina limestone stood out in successive tiers, eachthrown up against its neighbour by the misty haze that broods eternally over the wooded valley; till, roaming across them all, the eye rested at last on the rearing scarp of Chanctonbury Ring, faintlypencilled on the furthest skyline. Shadowy phantoms of dim heights framed the verge to east andwest. Alan Merrick drank it in with profound satisfaction. After those sharp and clear-cut Italianoutlines, hard as lapis lazuli, the mysterious vagueness, the pregnant suggestiveness, of our Englishscenery strikes the imagination; and Alan was fresh home from an early summer tour among thePeruginesque solidities of the Umbrian Apennines. "How beautiful it all is, after all," he said, turningto his entertainer. "In Italy 'tis the background the painter dwells upon; in England, we look ratherat the middle distance."Mrs Dewsbury darted round her the restless eye of a hostess, to see upon whom she couldsocially bestow him. "Oh, come this way," she said, sweeping across the lawn towards a girl in a bluedress at the opposite corner. "You must know our new-comer. I want to introduce you to MissBarton, from Cambridge. She's such a nice girl too-the Dean of Dunwich's daughter."Alan Merrick drew back with a vague gesture of distaste."Oh, thank you," he replied; "but, do you know, I don't think I like deans, Mrs Dewsbury."Mrs Dewsbury's smile was recondite and diplomatic."Then you'll exactly suit one another," she answered with gay wisdom. "For, to tell you the truth, I don't think she does either."The young man allowed himself to be led with a passive protest in the direction where MrsDewsbury so impulsively hurried him. He heard that cultivated voice murmuring in the usualinaudible tone of introduction, "Miss Barton, Mr Alan Merrick." Then he raised his hat. As he didso, he looked down at Herminia Barton's face with a sudden start of surprise. Why, this was a girl ofmost unusual beauty!She was tall and dark, with abundant black hair, richly waved above the ample forehead; and shewore a curious Oriental-looking navy-blue robe of some soft woollen stuff, that fell in natural foldsand set off to the utmost the lissome grace of her rounded figure. It was a sort of sleeveless sack, embroidered in front with arabesques in gold thread, and fastened obliquely two inches below thewaist with a belt of gilt braid, and a clasp of Moorish jewel-work. Beneath it, a bodice of darker silkshowed at the arms and neck, with loose sleeves in keeping. The whole costume, though quitesimple in style, a compromise either for afternoon or evening, was charming in its novelty, charmingtoo in the way it permitted the utmost liberty and variety of movement to the lithe limbs of itswear