Mrs. Trelawney waved back—tearfully.
“She has no business,” she said, “to be so exquisite.”
Audrey de Lisle would have been equally at home among a herd of deer or at a State Banquet. What is more, she would have graced either company. Her dark hair was framing features which would have done credit to the coin of any realm. Her hands and her little feet were lovely things. In movement, as in repose, she was the pink of easy gracefulness. Three things, however, especially distinguished her. They were the light in her soft brown eyes, the colour springing in her cheeks and the eager smile that flashed to her little red mouth. Having seen but one of these things, a man might count himself rich; having seen two, he would certainly become meditative; but the man who had seen all three she could, if she pleased, twist round her delicate finger. That such was her power never occurred to Audrey. She was as natural as the dawn. Indeed, this and other things natural—the spring and the wind and the manner of falling water, were in the girl’s blood. Her father’s town house had been in Boston, but the country had been her home. Not until three years ago had she tasted a city life. Rich as the fare had been, it was not to her liking. The death of her parents, however, had kept her in town. Sweet and twenty cannot rule a country estate; moreover, she must conform to the ways of her world—see and be seen, stand in the marriage-market, eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. . . . Audrey de Lisle was no fool, took things as they came, found Life a most excellent thing, hoped deep in her heart to find it still more excellent—one day.
With the scent of hay in her nostrils, treading the curling lane that led to Sundial, Audrey snuffed an earnest of that rare excellence to come. . . .
The lane rose a little to an old oak stile on the left; the scent of hay grew stronger: voices and the jingle of harness came to the girl’s ears.
Audrey quickened her steps. Here was her team.
That two magnificent greys were there is beyond question; and, further, a mighty roan in the shafts of a waggon of hay. A man was up on the top, piling the load, while two others were pitching him bottles with shining forks. On the ground, by the horses’ heads, sat a little boy, eating an apple, to which first one and then the other of the greys would advance an expectant muzzle. The child pushed them away nonchalantly. The meadow, now nearly clear, was flanked by a great beech-wood, which, with the sun behind, made a broad strip of shade down all its length. This was insisting upon the heat of the day, for the rest of the field was ablaze, and the sky cloudless.
Audrey was wondering how to make known her need, when the taller of the two pitchers planted his fork in the ground and mopped his face. Then he turned towards her and made for the stile.
As he approached, it appeared that, workman or no, he was not of the labouring class.
His shirt was open at the neck, and his sleeves rolled to the elbow; loose grey flannel trousers and brogues seemed to complete his attire, save for a soft grey hat on the back of his head. His face and arms were burned to a deep brown, his fair moustache brushed clear of a well-shaped mouth. His eye was grey and clear; his features, clean-cut; his hands, cared for. He walked slowly, as a man healthily tired, but his carriage was upright and his shoulders square.