Certainly her face had the delicacy of a white rose. Certainly her eyes were blue; blue as cornflowers; blue as the sea. But they were Miss Page’s eyes, and one instinctively compared them to lovely natural things.
She turned her head as the gate creaked.
Burks, in a frilled apron and a becoming cap with streamers, was hurrying up the path towards the sundial.
“There’s a carriage coming up the drive, ma’am,” she said.
“Thank you, Burks, I’ll come.”
The maid hastened back, her skirts ruffling the lavender borders, and, gathering up the filmy folds of her own gown, her mistress followed her.
At the gate, she turned for a last glance at the dying sunset sky.
On her way across the lawn, she noticed, with a thrill of pleasure, the beauty of the trees, motionless, dreaming in the dusk. White and slim in the half-light, the little fountain suggested to her a strayed nymph, transfixed with surprise and fear to find herself so near the haunts of man. Smiling at the fancy, Anne entered the drawing-room by one of the long open windows, and waited for her guests.
In a few moments, Burks admitted the Vicar and his wife.
The Reverend George Carfax was of the type already somewhat vieux jeu, of the muscular school of Christianity.