While he stood there enjoying the view, he heard a small high voice, and became conscious of a little girl in a very shady hat so far back on her brown hair that it did not shade her; and of a small hand put out in front.  He took the hand, and answered: 

“Thank you, I am well—­and you?” perceiving the while that a pair of wide frank eyes were examining his leg.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not to speak of.”

“My pony’s leg was blistered.  Granny is coming to look at it.”

“I see.”

“I have to go now.  I hope you’ll soon be better.  Good-bye!”

Then, instead of the little girl, Courtier saw a tall and rather florid woman regarding him with a sort of quizzical dignity.  She wore a stiffish fawn-coloured dress that seemed to be cut a little too tight round her substantial hips, for it quite neglected to embrace her knees.  She had on no hat, no gloves, no ornaments, except the rings on her fingers, and a little jewelled watch in a leather bracelet on her wrist.  There was, indeed, about her whole figure an air of almost professional escape from finery.

Stretching out a well-shaped but not small hand, she said: 

“I most heartily apologize to you, Mr. Courtier.”

“Not at all.”

“I do hope you’re comfortable.  Have they given you everything you want?”

“More than everything.”

“It really was disgraceful!  However it’s brought us the pleasure of making your acquaintance.  I’ve read your book, of course.”

To Courtier it seemed that on this lady’s face had come a look which seemed to say:  Yes, very clever and amusing, quite enjoyable!  But the ideas——­What?  You know very well they won’t do—­in fact they mustn’t do!

“That’s very nice of you.”

But into Lady Valleys’ answer, “I don’t agree with it a bit, you know!” there had crept a touch of asperity, as though she knew that he had smiled inside.  “What we want preached in these days are the warlike virtues—­especially by a warrior.”

“Believe me, Lady Valleys, the warlike virtues are best left to men of more virgin imagination.”

He received a quick look, and the words:  “Anyway, I’m sure you don’t care a rap for politics.  You know Mrs. Lees Noel, don’t you?  What a pretty woman she is!”

But as she spoke Courtier saw a young girl coming along the terrace.  She had evidently been riding, for she wore high boots and a skirt which had enabled her to sit astride.  Her eyes were blue, and her hair—­the colour of beech-leaves in autumn with the sun shining through—­was coiled up tight under a small soft hat.  She was tall, and moved towards them like one endowed with great length from the hip joint to the knee.  Joy of life, serene, unconscious vigour, seemed to radiate from her whole face and figure.

At Lady Valleys’ words: 

“Ah, Babs!  My daughter Barbara—­Mr. Courtier,” he put out his hand, received within it some gauntleted fingers held out with a smile, and heard her say: