He turned, and found that it was Miss White who spoke.  How was it that this girl, who was only a girl, seemed to do things so easily, and gently, and naturally, without any trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness?  He followed her, and knew not which to admire the more, the careless simplicity of her manner, or the singular symmetry of her tall and slender figure.  He had never seen any statue or any picture in any book to be compared with this woman, who was so fine, and rare, and delicate that she seemed only a beautiful tall flower in this garden of flowers.  There was a strange simplicity, too, about her dress—­a plain, tight-fitting, tight-sleeved dress of unrelieved black, her only adornment being some bands of big blue beads worn loosely round the neck.  The black figure, in this shimmer of rose-pink and gold and flowers, was effective enough; but even the finest of pictures or the finest of statues has not the subtle attraction of a graceful carriage.  Macleod had never seen any woman walk as this woman walked, in so stately and yet so simple a way.

From Mrs. Ross’s chief drawing-room they passed into an antedrawing-room, which was partly a passage and partly a conservatory.  On the window side were some rows of Cape heaths, on the wall side some rows of blue and white plates; and it was one of the latter that was engaging the attention of two persons in this anteroom—­Colonel Ross himself, and a little old gentleman in gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Shall I introduce you to my father?” said Miss White to her companion; and, after a word or two, they passed on.

“I think papa is invaluable to Colonel Ross,” said she:  “he is as good as an auctioneer at telling the value of china.  Look at this beautiful heath.  Mrs. Ross is very proud of her heaths.”

The small white fingers scarcely touched the beautiful blossoms of the plant; but which were the more palely roseate and waxen?  If one were to grasp that hand—­in some sudden moment of entreaty, in the sharp joy of reconciliation, in the agony of farewell—­would it not be crushed like a frail flower?

“There is our elm,” said she, lightly.  “Mrs. Ross and I regard it as our own, we have sketched it so often.”

They had emerged from the conservatory into a small square room, which was practically a continuation of the drawing-room, but which was decorated in pale blue and silver, and filled with a lot of knick-knacks that showed it was doubtless Mrs. Ross’s boudoir.  And out there, in the clear June sunshine, lay the broad greensward behind Prince’s Gate, with the one splendid elm spreading his broad branches into the blue sky, and throwing a soft shadow on the corner of the gardens next to the house.  How sweet and still it was!—­as still as the calm, clear light in this girl’s eyes.  There was no passion there, and no trouble; only the light of a June day, and of blue skies, and a peaceful soul.  She rested the tips of her fingers on a small rosewood table that stood by the window:  surely, if a spirit ever lived in any table, the wood of this table must have thrilled to its core.