Wildshott. As they passed the wicket in the hedge, a gleam of something, quickly seen and quickly withdrawn among the green beyond, caught Le Sage’s attention. He laid a hand on the reins, suggesting a halt. 

 “Was that a private way to the house?” he asked. “—there, where the little gate stood?” 

 Audrey told him yes. That it was called the Bishop’s Walk, and that he might lift the latch and go by it if he pleased. She twinkled as she spoke, and the Baron looked roguish. 

 “Inquisitive?” said he; “I admit it, if it is the word for an inquiring mind. But not conceited, I hope. I am going to explore.” 

 He was out in the road, to the dancing relief of the governess-cart springs, and waved au revoir to his companion. She nodded, and drove on, while he turned to go back to the wicket. He hummed as he went, a little philandering French air, droning the words in a soft, throaty way, and was still recalling them as he mounted the two steps from the road, opened the gate, and passed through. His eyes, moving in an immobile face, were busy all the time. “Dites moi, belle enchanteresse,” he sang, “Qui donc vous a donné vos yeux?” just above his breath and suddenly, at a few yards in, eighteen or twenty, swerved from the close narrow track and stepped behind a beech-trunk. And there was a girl hiding from view, her eyes wide, her forefinger crooked to her lip. 

 “Vos doux yeux, si pleins de tendresse,” hummed M. le Baron, and nodded humorously. “I thought I recognised you from the road.” 

 She did not flush up or exclaim “Me!” or exhibit any of the offensive-defensive pertness of the ordinary housemaid surprised out of bounds. She just stood looking at the intruder, a wonder on her rosy lips, and Le Sage for his part returned her scrutiny at his leisure. His impression of the night before he found more than confirmed by daylight: she was a very Arcadian nymph, with a sweet-briar complexion and eyes and hair of thyme and honey; shapely as a doe, ineffably pretty. He wondered less than ever over Louis’s infatuation. 

 And what was she doing here? Her head was bare; a light waterproof veiled her official livery: it might be concluded without much circumspection that a tryst was in the air. 

 “I am sorry,” said M. le Baron. “I did not come to be a spoil-sport. I ought, perhaps, to have pretended to see nothing and pass by. But that rudeness of my man last night sticks in my mind, and it 

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