‘Long ago when I was a girl,’ she said once.

‘Long ago?’ I echo incredulously, ‘surely not?’

‘Ah, but yes, you haven’t seen me in the daylight,’ with a soft little laugh.  ’Do you know what the gipsies say?  “Never judge a woman or a ribbon by candle-light.”  They might have said moonlight equally well.’

She rises as she speaks, and I feel an overpowering wish to have her put out her hand.  But she does not, she only takes the work-basket and a book, and says good night with an inclination of her little head.

I go over and stand next to her chair; I don’t like to sit in it, but I like to put my hand where her head leant, and fancy, if she were there, how she would look up.

I woke next morning with a curious sense of pleasurable excitement.  I whistled from very lightness of heart as I dressed.  When I got down I found the landlady clearing away her breakfast things.  I felt disappointed and resolved to be down earlier in future.  I didn’t feel inclined to try the minnow.  I put them in a tub in the yard and tried to read and listen for her step.  I dined alone.  The day dragged terribly.  I did not like to ask about her, I had a notion she might not like it.  I spent the evening on the river.  I might have filled a good basket, but I let the beggars rest.  After all, I had caught fish enough to stock all the rivers in Great Britain.  There are other things than trout in the world.  I sit and smoke a pipe where she caught me last night.  If I half close my eyes I can see hers, and her mouth, in the smoke.  That is one of the curious charms of baccy, it helps to reproduce brain pictures.  After a bit, I think ‘perhaps she has left’.  I get quite feverish at the thought and hasten back.  I must ask.  I look up at the window as I pass; there is surely a gleam of white.  I throw down my traps and hasten up.  She is leaning with her arms on the window-ledge staring out into the gloom.  I could swear I caught a suppressed sob as I entered.  I cough, and she turns quickly and bows slightly.  A bonnet and gloves and lace affair and a lot of papers are lying on the table.  I am awfully afraid she is going.  I say—­

’Please don’t let me drive you away, it is so early yet.  I half expected to see you on the river.’

’Nothing so pleasant; I have been up in town (the tears have certainly got into her voice) all day; it was so hot and dusty, I am tired out.’

The little servant brings in the lamp and a tray with a bottle of lemonade.

’Mistress hasn’t any lemons, ‘m, will this do?’

‘Yes,’ she says wearily, she is shading her eyes with her hand; ‘anything; I am fearfully thirsty.’

’Let me concoct you a drink instead.  I have lemons and ice and things.  My man sent me down supplies today; I leave him in town.  I am rather a dab at drinks; I learnt it from the Yankees; about the only thing I did learn from them I care to remember.  Susan!’ The little maid helps me to get the materials, and she watches me quietly.  When I give it to her she takes it with a smile (she has been crying).  That is an ample thank you.  She looks quite old.  Something more than tiredness called up those lines in her face.