"I know—the one who died in New Zealand."
"Yes. Well, one day Celia and I went up to Coops Hall, our nearest neighbours, some people named Fenwick, to plan tennis. It was a day like yesterday, very sunny and hot, and it must have been about this time of the year, because the white lilacs—a great clump of them of which Mrs. Fenwick was very proud—were in full bloom, and the air thick with their scent."
He glanced at the bowl on the table as he spoke.
"I remember perfectly well how I felt as we came up the incline of the lawn to the tulip trees where two or three hammocks were slung and where the Fenwick girls and their brother were sitting. That is one of the moments in my life of which I can still always recapture the very feel." After a moment he went on. "She was standing, leaning on a croquet mallet, with her sideface towards me. Her left profile, which was always better than the right—and still is for that matter——" He smiled, his face singularly sweetening at the thought.
"But, John!" the girl cried in amazement, "you romantic old thing, you are telling me a love story!"
He looked at her gravely. "I am, my dear. The only love story I ever had until I met you."
She shrank back in her big chair as if drawing away from a too close physical touch, and he went on.
"She wore a blue and white striped dress, as it used to be called in those days, bunched up at the back over a bustle, and, oh dear me, how her hair shone in the sun! It was rather a saintly face," he went on after a moment, "but the hair was the hair of a siren, full of waves and tendrils, and bewitching high lights and shades. Well, I was introduced to her, and we played croquet together, and then we had tea. And that was all. Did you ever read a little poem, 'There is a lady sweet and kind'?"
She shook her head. "No, John. You know I don't like poetry much."
"Well, listen. I don't remember the exact words, but it's like this: