Brakes took them from the station down a country road and, after a mile or so, through stone gates of a stately park, where wonder after wonder was set out before Paul’s unaccustomed eyes.  On either side of this roadway stretched rolling grass with clumps and glades of great trees in their July bravery—­more trees than Paul imagined could be in the world.  There were sunlit upland patches and cool dells of shade carpeted with golden buttercups, where cattle fed lazily.  Once a herd of fallow deer browsing by the wayside scuttled away at the noisy approach of the brakes.  Only afterward did Paul learn their name and nature:  to him then they were mythical beasts of fairyland.  Once also the long pile-of the Tudor house came into view, flashing-white in the sunshine.  The teacher in charge of the brake explained that it was the Marquis of Chudley’s residence.  It was more beautiful than anything Paul had ever seen; it was bigger than many churches put together; the word “Palace” came into his head—­it transcended all his preconceived ideas of palaces:  yet in such a palace only could dwell the radiant and sweet-smelling lady of his dream.  The certainty gave him a curious satisfaction.

They arrived at the spot where the marquees were erected, and at once began the traditional routine of the school treat-games for the girls, manlier sports for the boys.  Lord Chudley, patron of the living of St. Luke’s, Bludston, and Lord Bountiful of the feast, had provided swing-boats and a merry-go-round which discoursed infernal music to enraptured ears.  Paul stood aloof for a while from these delights, his eye on the section of the girls among whom his goddess moved.  As soon as she became detached and he could approach her without attracting notice, he crept within the magic circle of the scent and lay down prone, drinking in its intoxication, and, as she moved, he wriggled toward her on his stomach like a young snake.

After a time she came near him.  “Why aren’t you playing with the other boys?” she asked.

Paul sat on his heels.  “Dunno, miss,” he said shyly.

She glanced at his rapscallion attire, blushed, and blamed herself for the tactless question.  “This is a beautiful place, isn’t it?”

“It’s heavenly,” said Paul, with his eyes on her.

“One scarcely wants to do anything but just-just-well, be here.”  She smiled.

He nodded and said, “Ay!” Then he grew bolder.  “I like being alone,” he declared defiantly.

“Then I’ll leave you,” she laughed.

The blood flushed deep under his unwashed olive skin, and he leaped to his feet.  “Aw didn’t mean that!” he protested hotly.  “It wur them other boys.”

She was touched by his beauty and quick sensitiveness.  “I was only teasing.  I’m sure you like being with me.”

Paul had never heard such exquisite tones from human lips.  To his ears, accustomed to the harsh Lancashire burr, her low, accentless voice was music.  So another of his senses was caught in the enchantment.