Dorothy had never seen a prospect which pleased her better. There was grass beneath her feet--the exquisite grass which one seems to find only on an English lawn--thick and soft and springy, of such a restful green. There was croquet on one side; two tennis courts were beyond; with a well-shorn piece of grass, with big numbers on it, whose use she did not understand, which was really a clock for putting at golf; flowers were in beds and borders, on banks, and everywhere; there were great trees and smaller ones, shrubs and clustered bushes; behind was the long, low, old house, with its rose and creeper covered walls; in front was the river, sparkling, laughing in the sunshine, already alive with a greater variety of small pleasure craft than she had ever heard of. She had read of such places in English books at the convent; but she had scarcely even hoped ever to see one. Yet, here she was, transported, as if by the touch of a magician's wand, into what seemed to her to be a more perfect paradise than any of those she had read of, which she had been told she might regard, at least for some little time to come, almost as if it were her own home. After fourteen years spent within one set of walls, where nothing ever happened, events had crowded on her, all at once, so quickly; she had been so passed, as it were, from hand to hand; so hurried from scene to scene, that it was not strange if this final transformation almost seemed to her as if it were part and parcel of some long-continued dream, and that as she stood there, inhaling the pleasant air, the smell of the flowers, the sunshine, the indescribable aroma of the whole delightful scene, she was conscious, amid all the charm and sweetness, of a sense of shivering fear, lest this, the only pleasant phase of that drawn-out dream, should pass, as the rest of it had done, and its terror should return.

It was in an effort to escape this haunting fear that she moved quickly down to the river's brink. There was a sloping bank at the foot of the lawn; the stream ran just beneath; the grass growing almost down to the water's edge--there was nothing whatever to prevent your stepping from the bank into the river if you felt disposed. She stood on the slope to take in new aspects of what seemed to her to be the ever-changing scene. How nice some of the boats looked--and how pretty were some of their occupants--and what pretty clothes they wore! Dorothy was wearing the frock and the hat which Mr Frazer had brought with him in the parcel from Newcaster; yesterday they had seemed to her to be in the height of fashion--and compared to the garments which she discarded for them they were. Now she felt how out of harmony they were with her surroundings. The frock was of dark blue serge, the hat of dark grey felt; both good in their way--she did not doubt that they had cost more money than any two garments of hers had ever done before. But then the men in the boats were all in white flannels, and the girls and women in gossamer fabrics of the airiest kind, with hats which were radiant visions. They were in accord with the spirit of the scene. The longer Dorothy stood to watch the stronger her conviction grew that she was not. As far as appearance went she was nothing but a blot on the landscape. Ashamed though she was of such a feeling it was there, and would not away. She knew, none better, how indebted she was to the generosity of a stranger for being able to look as well as she did. She called herself a little pig for wishing that her clothes went better with that fairylike garden, those radiant skies, the silver stream; were more in the vein of poetry which marked the costume of the girl in the boat with the two men, an old and a young one, which was crossing from the opposite bank towards the lawn on which she stood. She was a study in the palest of pale blues; Dorothy thought what a charming bit of colour she made, in the smart boat; in which the two oarsmen, of such contrasting ages, were evidently so much at home. What a good-looking pair they were, in their different styles! The fact became plainer as the boat drew near; the one with the silvery hair and moustache, the other with the light brown curls, and smooth cheeks on which was the glow of youth and health.

It had just dawned on Dorothy that the boat was being steered, by the vision in blue, towards the spot on which she was standing; when, on a sudden, the young lady in question, rising in her seat, began to exclaim aloud, in a state of unmistakable agitation:

"Why, if it isn't Dorothy Gilbert! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you come from?"

The white-haired gentleman seemed to find in the steerswoman's conduct cause of complaint.

"If," he observed, in quite audible tones, "you do want to have us over, would you mind letting us have a little notice of what to expect?"

The expression of this seemingly reasonable wish the young lady treated with scorn.

"Don't be silly, dad! What does it matter? Especially when there's Dorothy Gilbert actually standing on our lawn! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you tumbled from?"

"Excuse me, sir, if we've taken much paint off your boat; but if you'll kindly have it put right, and will send the bill to my daughter, who's at present suffering from one of her periodical attacks, I've no doubt she'll be glad to see it settled--she's supposed to be steering us, and this is the way she does it."

"Dad!--how can you?" The young lady had all at once discovered, to her confusion, that these remarks were addressed to two young men who were in a skiff with which their own craft had nearly come into collision. "If you or Jim will row I'll take you in." Presently the boat was brought along to some steps which Dorothy had not previously noticed, but which she now saw led to the lawn. The young man stepped ashore, with the painter in his hand; and was followed by the young lady, who sprang up the steps, two at a time, and rushed to where Dorothy was standing, exclaiming as she went: "Dorothy! Dorothy! my darling child, have you tumbled from the skies?"

And, almost before she knew it, Dorothy found herself in the arms, and submitting to the caresses, of the vision in blue.

"Why," she said, when at last she had a chance to speak, "do you know, I didn't know you; you look so different."

"Different from what?"

"Different--from what you looked at the convent."

"The convent? My dear!--I should hope I do! How we all looked at that silly old convent! But, tell me, how do I look?--really?--that miserable Jim just said I looked a perfect fright."

"I was just thinking how lovely that girl in the boat did look; and--she turned out to be you."

"My dear, you're an angel! I always was fond of you, but if you keep on saying darling things to me like that----! What's become of your guardian? Where is Mr Emmett?"

"I--" Dorothy was about to say, "I left him behind in Newcaster"; but she changed the form of her sentence to--"I haven't brought him with me."

"Brought him with you! I should think you hadn't! The idea of bringing him! The great thing is, you've brought yourself. Honestly, I'd sooner see you than that the Fates should buy a motor car; and if you knew how set I am on that--you mayn't believe it, but we only go driving about behind frumpy old horses--you'd understand how glad I am--especially to-day. My dear, to-day's our regatta, and our garden-party--it's our day of days! You couldn't have dropped on us at a better time; you little schemer, I believe you planned it! Father, if you will kindly come here I will present you to my friend, Miss Dorothy Gilbert, of whom, in my moments of emotion, you have heard me speak. Dorothy, this is my father; a more desirable parent you could not ask for; though I regret to say that he treats his daughter with a lack of respect which I fear is one of the signs of the day. Fathers did not treat their daughters like that when I was young."

"No, Miss Gilbert, nor when I was young either; in those days daughters stood in awe of their fathers--but we've changed all that. I trust you know my daughter sufficiently well to be aware that she has her moments of sanity."

"Dad!--you shouldn't speak like that!--the child will misunderstand you. Fortunately Dorothy does know me. James!--Jim!--when you've finished trying to tie that boat up might I ask you to step this way? Dorothy, this is Mr James Harold Arbuthnot Vernon, better known as Jim--he is my brother; which is the only complimentary thing I can say of him. Jim, I believe you can be almost nice if you try very hard--do try your very hardest to be nice to Miss Gilbert."

"Miss Gilbert, I assure you I can be very nice to you, as this little object puts it, without trying in the least; in fact, I don't believe I could be anything else."

"Jim! Dorothy, did you ever hear anything like him? Please try to bear with him, for a time, for my sake."

The father of the pair managed to get in a word.

"I trust, Miss Gilbert, that this is not a flying visit you are paying us, but that you have come to stay some time."

Dorothy's was a stammering answer.

"I--I hardly know; my--my movements are uncertain."

Miss Vernon echoed her last word.

"Uncertain!--but, my dear child, what I'm dying to know is what favouring wind of providence it was which blew you here. When did you come?"

"Last night."

"Last night!--at what ever time?"

"It was very late."

"It must have been. You see that houseboat by the paddock there?--that's ours; sometimes some of us sleep in it, and sometimes none of us do--last night we three did--but we never started till quite late, and you weren't here then. Why ever didn't you let me know that you were coming? I'd never have gone to that silly old houseboat if I had."

"I didn't know that I was coming till--till I'd almost come."

"My dear child!--what do you mean? You must have made up your mind in a hurry, or--did your guardian make it up for you? Did Mr Emmett bring you?"

"No; I came with Mr Frazer."

"Mr who?--Frazer?--and who's Mr Frazer?"

"He says he knows you--and your mother seems to know him very well."

"Says he knows me!--and mother knows him very well?--what Frazer can it be? I know no Mr Frazer."

Her brother offered a suggestion.

"Perhaps he's one of Billy Frazer's lot--Miss Gilbert, do you know Billy Frazer? He's up at Magdalen; stroked their boats in the torpids; Bones they call him because--well, because he's bony. Perhaps your man's a relative of his."

"I don't know; I don't know any of his relations--his name is Eric."

Miss Vernon turned to her father.

"Dad, who is Mr Eric Frazer?"

"I daresay, if you put Miss Gilbert on the witness-stand, and bombard her long enough, you may get from her the information you require; though in my time it was not supposed to be the thing to cross-examine one's guest the moment one met her--however, we have also changed all that. I am going into the house to speak to your mother. I am very glad to see you, Miss Gilbert; I don't care how you came, or with whom; I am only sorry that I was not here to welcome you. I trust now you have come you'll keep on staying."

The old gentleman moved towards the house; with a figure as erect as if nothing had ever happened to bow his head or bend his back. His daughter looked after him with smiling eyes; then turned to the visitor with a question which took the girl rather aback.

"Well, Dorothy, what do you think of my father?"

"Frances!--what a thing to ask me!--when I've seen him for scarcely five minutes!"

"Well?--isn't that long enough to enable you to form an opinion? I've summed up most people inside two seconds."

"Yes--all wrong. Frances, you are an idiot; I never did know anyone talk quite such drivel as you do."

"Thank you, James; I am obliged to you. Would you mind going away to play? I have something which I wish to say to my friend, Miss Gilbert, which I would rather not have overheard by boys. And please remember how easily a bad impression is formed--don't let Miss Gilbert find out your true character in the first two minutes."

"All right, ducky; don't you worry. I give you my word I've no wish to listen to the sort of stuff I know you are fond of talking. Miss Gilbert, you have my sympathy."

The young gentleman strolled off, his hands in his pockets, whistling a popular air. Miss Vernon regarded his back with the same smiling eyes with which she had followed her father; and put almost the same question to her friend.

"Dorothy, what do you think of Jim?"

"Frances!--how can you?--when you know very well that I think nothing."

"You are quite right, my dear; I am glad you show such penetration. All the same, you can't deny that he is good-looking."

"Is he? I didn't notice."

"You didn't notice! Child!--you're not in the convent now."

"No; sometimes I wish I were."

"That's a flattering thing to say!--considering where you are!--and that I am here!"

"Frances! I didn't mean that! You don't understand."

"You are wrong; I do. I've a feeling that there's something mysterious about you, about your presence here; and, Dorothy Gilbert, if there's anything I do love, it's mystery. I suppose it's too much to hope that it's one of those frightful mysteries, of which one only speaks with bated breath--that sort of blood-curdler never crosses my path. But, whatever it may be, I foresee a perfectly delightful time ahead, while I am engaged in wriggling out from you the secret. However insinuating I may be, baffle my curiosity; and for goodness sake don't let it burst on me too soon. Let it dawn on me by degrees; in instalments, my dear; and let me have a shock with each instalment; each one greater than the last; so that the full comprehension of the mystery comes with a culminating shock which turns my hair almost grey--almost, my pet, not quite, if you please. I've heard that grey hair suits some girls; but I don't believe I'm one of them. By the way of beginning my insinuating, let me remark that you have changed since I saw you."

"So have you--and you must have changed more than I have, because I didn't know you, and you did know me."

"That's true. Now, Dorothy, no flummery, and no fibs--in what respect do you consider I have altered?"

"Well--for one thing you seem to be so much more of a woman."

"Do I? Isn't that natural?"

"I don't know; it isn't so very long since I saw you last."

"A great many things may happen in a very short time."

"That's true."

Dorothy sighed; but Miss Vernon was smiling. Then she said, with an air which would be grave, but was not:

"There are women and women. I have heard people say that when one becomes a woman one should show a consciousness of the responsibilities of womanhood. I hope I don't show too much of that kind of thing."

"I don't think you ever will do that."

"Sha'n't I? You never can tell. A man I danced with last week--he was quite old, over thirty--said that it bursts upon you all at once, what it means to be a woman. I don't know what he knows about it, as he's only a man; but I've noticed that some men, when they're old, do seem to know a good deal about women--or they pretend to. What do you think of this dress?"

"It's a perfect dream!"

"Really?"

"I never saw anything so lovely."

"I fancy it is rather--too-too; and I believe that's what Jim thinks; that's why he keeps calling me a perfect fright. Oh, those brothers! they have such ways of paying a compliment. What do you think of the hat?"

Again Dorothy sighed; but this time it was a sigh of admiration.

"Frances, it's simply sweet!"

"Notice the hair?"

"Rather; and I believe it's the hair which is more responsible for the change which I see in you than anything else. Of course the clothes have something to do with it--you didn't wear frocks and hats like that in the convent."

"My dear! what are you talking about? Fancy the sensation I'd have made! Can't you see the Mother's face?"

"No; and I'd rather not, thank you. But it's the hair which has changed you more than the clothes. I can't think how it's done. I wonder----"

Dorothy stopped; the other finished the sentence for her.

"If I will do yours for you? Come into the house, and then I'll show you. I've discovered I've quite a genius for dressing hair. I'll make a perfect picture of you--you won't know yourself when I've finished. Which room have you got? You don't know? You think that's the window? That's the pink room--we call it the pink room because once upon a time its decorations were pink; and we still call it the pink room, though now they're what I call a symphony in chaste French-grey. Talk about this frock! You wait till you see me this afternoon! I say, you were lucky to drop on us on our day of days! There'll be tons of people here; and, among them, one or two nice ones. Honestly, did you know what day it was?"

"Of course I didn't; and, if you don't mind, I'd--I'd just as soon stay in the house while all those people are here. I--I don't feel in a mood for that kind of thing."

"What kind of thing? Stuff! You don't know what you're talking about; shyness is what's the matter with you; and that's a complaint of which little convent-bred girls have got to be cured. Wait till I've tried my hand upon your hair! Come along, I'll start on it at once. Why," she had taken Dorothy's hand in her own, "I say!--whatever's this?--a ring!--on her engagement finger!--diamonds!--and such a beauty! Dorothy, what is the matter with the child? She's staring at her own finger as if she were staring at a ghost!"

Dorothy was staring at Mr Emmett's ring, which gleamed at her on the third finger of her left hand. Until that moment she had been unconscious of its presence--a fact which was a sufficient commentary on her mental state during the last several hours. She could not think how it had got there; to her it was something worse than a ghost; it brought back to her, on the instant, all that she would have been so willing to forget.