And so standing before him, her head bent over her task, she unwittingly left Lawrence free to observe the texture of her skin, bloomed over with down like a peach, and the curves of her young shoulders, a little inclined to stoop, as young backs often are in the strain of growth, but so firm, so fresh, so white under the thin stuff of her bodice:  below her silken plaits, on the nape of her neck, a curl or two of hair grew in close rings, so fine that it was almost indistinguishable from its own shadow.  Swiftly, without warning, Lawrence was aware of a pleasurable commotion in his veins, a thrill that shook through him like a burst of gay music.  This experience was not novel, he had felt it three or four times before in his life, and on the spot, while it was sending gentle electric currents to his finger-tips, he was able to analyse its origin—­item, to warm weather and laziness after the strain of his Chinese journey, so much:  item, to Isabel’s promise of beauty, so much:  item, to the disparity between her age and his own, to her ignorance and immaturity, the bloom on the untouched fruit, so much more.  But there was this difference between the present and previous occasions when he had fallen or thought of falling in love, that he desired no victory:  no, it was he and not Isabel who was to capitulate, leaning his forehead upon her young hand. . . .  And he had never seen her till that morning, and the child was nineteen, the daughter of a country vicarage, brought up to wear calico and to say her prayers! more, she was Val Stafford’s sister, and she loved her brother.  Lawrence gave himself a gentle shake.  At six and thirty it is time to put away childish things.  “Thank you very much.  Is that Mrs. Clowes calling us?”

It was Laura Clowes and Yvonne Bendish, and Lawrence, as he strolled back with Isabel to the garden gate, had an uneasy suspicion that the episode of the honeysuckle had been overseen.  Laura was graver than usual, while Yvonne had a sardonic spark in her eye.  “I’m afraid it’s no use waiting any longer, Isabel,” said Laura.

“What do you think, Lawrence?  It’s after six o’clock.”

“Hasn’t Val come?” said Isabel.

“No, he must have been kept at Countisford.  It’s a long ride for him on such a hot day.  Perhaps Mrs. Bishop made him stay to tea.”

“As if he would stay with any old Mrs. Bishop when he knew you were coming here!” said Isabel scornfully.  “Poor old Val, I shan’t tell him how you misjudged him, he’d be so hurt.  But I’ll send him down, shall I, to see you and Captain Hyde after supper?—­Tired?  Oh no, he’s never too tired to go to Wanhope.”

She kissed Laura, gave Lawrence her sweetest friendly smile, and returned to the lawn, where Yvonne had apparently taken root upon her tigerskin.  Isabel heard Rowsley say, “Make her shut up, Jack,” but before she could ask why Yvonne was to be shut up the daughter of Lilith had opened fire on the daughter of Eve.  “And what did you think of Lawrence Hyde?” Mrs. Bendish asked, stretching herself out like a snake and examining Isabel out of her pale eyes, much the colour of an unripe gooseberry.  “Was he very attractive?  Oh Isabel! oh Isabel!  I should not have thought this of one so young.”