The air in the valley was heavy, even on this April day.  Captain Cai reached the footpath-gate in a bath of perspiration, despite his alpaca coat and notwithstanding that the last half mile of his way had lain under the light shade of budding trees.  He gazed up at the ascent, and bethought him that the musical box was an intolerable burden for such a climb.  It would involve him in explanations, too, being so unusual an accessory to a morning call.  He searched about, therefore, for a hiding-place in which to bestow it, and found one at length in a clump of alder intermixed with brambles, that overhung the stream a few paces beyond the gate, almost within the shadow of the footbridge.

Having made sure that the bed on which it rested was firm and moderately dry, he covered the box with a strewing of last year’s leaves, cunningly trailed a bramble or two over it, and pursued his way more lightsomely, albeit still under some oppression:  for the house stood formidably high, and he feared all converse with women.  For lack of practice he had no presence of mind in their company, Moreover, his recent fiasco in speech-making had dashed his spirits.

He reached the last turn of the path.  It brought him in sight of a garden-gate some ten yards ahead, on his left hand.  The gate was white, and some one inside was even at this moment engaged in repainting it; for as he halted to draw breath he caught sight of a paint-brush—­or rather the point of one—­briskly waggling between the rails.

The gate opened and Mrs Bosenna peeped out.  “Ah, I thought I heard footsteps!” said she.  She wore a widow’s cap—­a very small and natty one; and a large white apron covered the front of her widow’s gown from bosom to ankles.

“I—­I’m sorry to call so late, ma’am.”

“Late?  Why, it can’t be past noon, scarcely. . . .  We don’t have dinner till one o’clock.  You’ll excuse my not shaking hands, but I never could paint without messing my fingers.”

“But I hadn’t an idea, ma’am—­”

“Eh?”

“Nothing was farther from my thoughts than—­than—­”

“Staying to dinner?  Oh, but it’s understood!  There’s roast sucking-pig,” said Mrs Bosenna tranquilly, as if this disposed of all argument.  She added, “I didn’t recognise you for the moment.  You’re wearing a different hat.”

“Actin’ under advice, ma’am.”

“I don’t know that it’s an improvement.”  Her eyes rested on him in cool scrutiny, and he flinched under it.  “There’s always a—­a sort of distinction about a top hat.  Of course, it was very thoughtful of you to change it for something more free-and-easy.  But different styles suit different persons, and—­as I’m always telling Dinah—­the secret of dressing is to find out the style that suits you, and stick to it.”

“Bein’ free-an’-easy, ma’am, was the last thing in my mind,” stammered Captain Cai.

“There, didn’t I guess? . . .  Well, you shall wear your top hat next time, and I’ll take back my first impressions if I find ’em wrong.”