‘Did they think they could do that with me!’ she said, under her breath.  And what could her companion do but feel ashamed of every man he had ever seen do ‘that’ for any woman?

The course of things was changed after a time by Mr. Nightingale’s coming up and asking her to walk.  He had made over the ‘practice’ to somebody else, professing that he knew the figures already.  Perhaps somewhat in his companion’s manner struck him, for he remarked, quite philosophically, as they moved into the shadow of the shrubbery, that ’society is a problem!’

‘Is it?’ said Hazel, to whom problems (out of books) were as yet in a happy distance.  ’What needs solution, Mr. Nightingale?’

‘Is it possible you do not see?’

’Not a bit.  I did not know society was deep enough to be called a problem.’

’ “Glissez, mortels; n’appuyez pas.” ’

‘Well, people do not,’ said Wych Hazel.

’And had best not.  Nothing is more graceful than the state of bold and brave innocence.’

Hazel mused a little at that, half unconsciously getting up a problem of her own.  Was he talking of her ‘innocence?’ did he, too, see things which she did not?  And was this another warning?  Yet no one more forward to draw her into round dances than Stuart Nightingale.  He began again in another tone.

‘You are determined not to dance to-night?’

‘Yes.  Am I part of the problem?’

He laughed a little.  ’You would not be a true woman if you were not.’

‘You may as well give up trying to understand me,’ said Wych Hazel, gaily.  ’Mr. Falkirk and I have been at it for years, and the puzzle is a puzzle yet.’

‘Confess, you like to be a puzzle.’

‘One may as well make the best of one’s natural advantages,’ said Hazel with a laugh.  ’I suppose if I were what people call “limpid,” and “transparent,” I might like that too.’  But the clear girlish purity of the depths referred to was as transparent as the Summer blue.

‘Have you ever been told,’ said Stuart, lowering his voice a little, ’of your very remarkable resemblance to one of the greatest puzzles of history?’

‘No,’ said Hazel.  ’And you do not know me well enough to tell what I resemble.’

’Pardon me—­pardon me!  Do you think I could not have told, after that one first meeting in the wood?’

‘If you could,’ said Wych Hazel, with a lift of her eyebrows, ’I cannot imagine how society can be a problem to you, Mr. Nightingale.’

’There never was but one woman, of those whose pictures have come down to us, whose mouth could be at once so mischievous and so sweet.  You are aware the mouth is the index to the character?’

Hazel answered with some reserve (direct compliments always gave her a check)

‘No—­Yes.  I have heard people say so.’

‘And you know the woman I mean?’

‘She is bound to be a witch!—­but further than that—­’