She was bare-headed; and the level rays of evening powdered her dark tresses with gold, and touched the trees behind into bronze.  One hand shielded her eyes; the other rested on the half-open gate, and swayed it softly to and fro upon its hinge.  As she stood thus, some happy touch of opportunity, some trick of circumstance or grouping, must, I think, have helped Mr. Fogo to a conclusion he had been seeking for weeks.  It is certain that though he has since had abundant opportunities of studying Tamsin, and noting that untaught grace of body in which many still find the secret of her charm, to his last day she will always be for him the woman who stood, this summer evening, beside the gate and looked up the river.

And yet, as the boat drew near, the pleasantest feature in the picture was the smile with which she welcomed her brothers, though it contained some wonder to see them in Mr. Fogo’s boat, and gave place to quick alarm as she remarked the extreme blueness of that gentleman’s nose and the extreme pallor of his other features.

“Tamsin, my dear, es the cloth laid?”

“Yes, Peter, and the kettle ready to boil.”

“We was thinkin’ as Shenachrum would be suitin’ Mr. Fogo better.  He’ve met wi’ an accident.”

“Again?” There was something of disdain in her eyes as she curtseyed to him, but it softened immediately.  “You’re kindly welcome, sir,” she added, “and the Shenachrum shall be ready in ten minutes.”

Within five minutes Mr. Fogo was seated by the corner of the hearth, and watching her as she heated the beer which, together with rum, sugar, and lemon, forms the drink known and loved by Trojans as Shenachrum.  The Twins had retired to wash in the little out-house at the back, and their splashing was audible every now and again above the crackling of the wood fire, which now, as before, filled the kitchen with fragrance.  Its warmth struck kindly into Mr. Fogo’s knees, and coloured Tamsin’s cheeks with a hot red as she bent over the flame.  He watched her profile in thoughtful silence for some moments, and then fell to staring at the glowing sticks and the shadows of the pot-hooks and hangers on the chimney-back.

“So that is Shenachrum?” he said at last, to break the silence.

“Yes.”

“And what, or who, is Samson?”

“Samson is brandy and cider and sugar.”

“With his hair on?”

She laughed.

“That means more brandy.  Samson was double as strong, you know, with his hair on.”

“I see.”

The silence was resumed.  Only the tick-tack of the tall clock and the splashing of the Twins disturbed it.  She turned to glance at him once, and then, seeing his gaze fixed upon the fire that twinkled on the rim of his spectacles and emphasised the hollows of his face, had looked for a moment more boldly before she bent over her task again.

“She is quite beautiful, but—­”