But when Leam turned from the wood-path into the road, Edgar felt like a man who has allowed himself to be made enthusiastic over but an inferior bit of art, knowing better.  Her beautiful face, with its glorious eyes so full of latent passion, dreaming thought, capacity for sorrow—­all that most excites yet most softens the heart of a man; her exquisite figure, so fine in its lines, so graceful yet not weak, so tender yet not sensual; as she stood there in the sunlight the gleam of dusky gold showing on the edges of her dark hair; her very attitude and action as she held a basket full of wild-flowers which with unconscious hypocrisy she had picked to give herself the color of an excuse for her long hiding in the yew tree,—­all dwarfed, eclipsed Adelaide into a mere milk-and-roses beauty of a type to be seen by hundreds in a day; while Leam—­who was like this peerless Leam?  Neither Spain nor England could show such a one as she.  Ah, where was the philosophy of fitness now, when this exquisite creation, more splendid than fit, came to the front?

Edgar went forward to meet her, that look of love surprised out of concealment which told so much on his face.  Adelaide saw it, and Josephine saw it, and the eyes of the latter grew moist, but the lips of the other only closed more tightly.  She accepted the challenge, and she meant to conquer in the fight.

Wearied by her emotions, saddened both by the love that had been confessed and the friendship that had been offered, this meeting with Edgar Harrowby seemed to Leam like home and rest to one very tired and long lost.  The bright spring day, which until now had been as gray as winter, suddenly broke upon her with a sense of warmth and beauty, and her sad face reflected in its tender, evanescent smile the delight of which she had become thus suddenly conscious.  She laid her hand in his frankly:  he had never seen her so frankly glad to meet him; and a look, a gesture, from Leam—­grave, proud, reticent Leam—­meant as much as cries of joy and caresses from others.

“Good-morning, Miss Dundas:  where have you been?” said Edgar, his accent of familiar affection, which meant “Beloved Leam,” in nowise overlaid by the formality of the spoken “Miss Dundas.”

“Into the wood,” said Leam, her hand, as if for proof thereof, stirring the flowers.

“It is a new phase to see you given to rural delights and wild-flowers, Leam,” said Adelaide with a little laugh.

“But how pleasant that our dear Leam should have found such a nice amusement!” said Josephine.

“As picking primroses and bluebells, Joseph?” And Adelaide laughed again.

Somehow, her laugh, which was not unmusical, was never pleasant.  It did not seem to come from the heart, and was the farthest in the world removed from mirth.

Leam looked at her coldly.  “I like flowers,” she said, carrying her head high.

“So do I,” said Edgar with the intention of taking her part.  “What are these things?” holding up a few cuckoo-flowers that were half hidden like delicate shadows among the primroses.