For I had fallen into a reverie over the deplorable obstinacy of my new heroine, who declined, for all my labours, to be unsophisticated; and taking advantage of this, Guendolen had twitched the reins from my hand and proceeded to satisfy her thirst in a manner that was rather too noisy to be quite good form. I sat in patience, idly observing the sparkling reflection of the sunlight on the water. I was elaborating a comparison between my obstinate heroine and Guendolen. Then Guendolen snorted, as something rustled through the underbrush, and turning, I perceived a Vision.
The Vision was in white, with a profusion of openwork. There were blue ribbons connected with it. There were also black eyes, of the almond-shaped, heavy-lidded variety that I had thought existed only in Lely’s pictures, and great coils of brown hair which was gold where the chequered sunlight fell upon it, and two lips that were inexpressibly red. I was filled with pity for my tired horse, and a resolve that for this once her thirst should be quenched.
Thereupon, I lifted my cap hastily; and Guendolen scrambled to the other bank, and spluttered, and had carried me well past the Iron Spring, before I announced to the evening air that I was a fool, and that Guendolen was describable by various quite picturesque and derogatory epithets. And I smiled.
“Now, Robert Etheridge Townsend, you writer of books, here is a subject made to your hand!” And then:
“Only ’twixt the light and shade
Floating memories of my maid
Make me pray for Guendolen.”
After this we retraced our steps. I was peering anxiously about the roadway.
“Pardon me,” said I, subsequently; “but have you seen anything of a watch—a small gold one, set with pearls?”
“Heavens!” said the Vision, sympathetically, “what a pity! Are you sure it fell here?”
“I don’t seem to have it about me,” I answered, with cryptic, but entire veracity. I searched about my pockets, with a puckered brow. “And as we stopped here—”
I looked inquiringly into the water.
“From this side,” observed the Vision, impersonally, “there is less glare from the brook.”
Having tied Guendolen to a swinging limb, I sat down contentedly in these woods. The Vision moved a little, lest I be crowded.
“It might be further up the road,” she suggested.
“Oh, I must have left it at the hotel,” I observed.
“You might look—” said she, peering into the water.
“Forever!” I assented.
The Vision flushed, “I didn’t mean—” she began.
“But I did,” quoth I—“and every word of it.”
“Why, in that case,” said she, and rose to her feet, “I’d better—” A frown wrinkled her brow; then a deep, curved dimple performed a similar office for her cheek. “I wonder—” said she.
“Why, you would be a boldfaced jig,” said I, composedly; “but, after all there is nobody about. And, besides—for I suspect you of being one of the three dilapidated persons in veils who came last night—we are going to be introduced right after supper, anyway.”
The Vision sat down. “You mentioned your sanatorium?” quoth she.
“The Asylum of Love,” said I; “discharged—under a false impression—as cured, and sent to paradise.
“Oh!” said I, defiant, “but it is!”
She looked about her. “The woods are rather beautiful,” she conceded, softly.
“They form a quite appropriate background,” said I. “It is a veritable Eden, before the coming of the snake.”
“Before?” she queried, dubiously.
“Undoubtedly,” said I, and felt my ribs, in meditative wise. “Ah, but I thought I missed something! We participate in a historic moment. This is in Eden immediately after the creation of—Well, but of course you are acquainted with that famous bull about Eve’s being the fairest of her daughters?”
“It is quite time,” said she, judicially, “for me to go back to the hotel, before—since we are speaking of animals—your presence here is noticed by one of the squirrels.”
“It is not good,” I pleaded, “for man to be alone.”
“I have heard,” said she, “that—almost anyone can cite scripture to his purpose.”
I thrust out a foot for inspection. “No suggestion of a hoof,” said I; “and not the slightest odour of brimstone, as you will kindly note; and my inoffensive name is Robert Townsend.”
“Of course,” she submitted, “I could never think of making your acquaintance in this irregular fashion; and, therefore, of course, I could not think of telling you that my name is Marian Winwood.”
“Of course not,” I agreed; “it would be highly improper.”
“—And it is more than time for me to go to supper,” she concluded again, with a lacuna, as it seemed to me, in the deduction.
“Look here!” I remonstrated; “it isn’t anywhere near six yet.” I exhibited my watch to support this statement.
“Oh!” she observed, with wide, indignant eyes.
“I—I mean—” I stammered.
She rose to her feet.
“—I will explain how I happened to be carrying two watches—”
“I do not care to listen to any explanations. Why should I?”
“—upon,” I firmly said, “the third piazza of the hotel. And this very evening.”
“You will not.” And this was said even more firmly. “And I hope you will have the kindness to keep away from these woods; for I shall probably always walk here in the afternoon.” Then, with an indignant toss of the head, the Vision disappeared.
III
I whistled. Subsequently I galloped back to the hotel.
“See here!” said I, to the desk-clerk; “how long does this place keep open?”
“Season closes latter part of September, sir.”
I told him I would need my rooms till then.
XVII
He Provides Copy
I
So it was Uncle George Bulmer who presently left the Green Chalybeate, to pursue Mrs. Chaytor with his lawless arts. I stayed out the season.
Now I cannot conscientiously recommend the Green Chalybeate against your next vacation. Once very long ago, it was frequented equally for the sake of gaiety and of health. In the summer that was
