But even that did not exhaust the charm of Upcombe for Dolly.  For the first time in her life, she saw something of men,—­real men, with horses and dogs and guns,—­men who went out partridge shooting in the season and rode to hounds across country, not the pale abstractions of cultured humanity who attended the Fabian Society meetings or wrote things called articles in the London papers.  Her mother’s friends wore soft felt hats and limp woollen collars; these real men were richly clad in tweed suits and fine linen.  Dolly was charmed with them all, but especially with one handsome and manly young fellow named Walter Brydges, the stepson and ward of a neighboring parson.  “How you talked with him at tennis to-day!” Winnie Compson said to her friend, as they sat on the edge of Dolly’s bed one evening.  “He seemed quite taken with you.”

A pink spot of pleasure glowed on Dolly’s round cheek to think that a real young man, in good society, whom she met at so grand a house as the Compsons’, should seem to be quite taken with her.

“Who is he, Winnie?” she asked, trying to look less self-conscious.  “He’s extremely good-looking.”

“Oh, he’s Mr. Hawkshaw’s stepson, over at Combe Mary,” Winnie answered with a nod.  “Mr. Hawkshaw’s the vicar there till Mamma’s nephew is ready to take the living—­what they call a warming-pan.  But Walter Brydges is Mrs. Hawkshaw’s son by her first husband.  Old Mr. Brydges was the squire of Combe Mary, and Walter’s his only child.  He’s very well off.  You might do worse, dear.  He’s considered quite a catch down in this part of the country.”

“How old is he?” Dolly asked, innocently enough, standing up by the bedside in her dainty white nightgown.  But Winnie caught at her meaning with the preternatural sharpness of the girl brought up in immediate contact with the landed interest.  “Oh, he’s of age,” she answered quickly, with a knowing nod.  “He’s come into the property; he has nobody on earth but himself to consult about his domestic arrangements.”

Dolly was young; Dolly was pretty; Dolly’s smile won the world; Dolly was still at the sweetest and most susceptible of ages.  Walter Brydges was well off; Walter Brydges was handsome; Walter Brydges had all the glamour of a landed estate, and an Oxford education.  He was a young Greek god in a Norfolk shooting-jacket.  Moreover, he was a really good and pleasant young fellow.  What wonder, therefore, if before a week was out, Dolly was very really and seriously in love with him?  And what wonder if Walter Brydges in turn, caught by that maiden glance, was in love with Dolly?  He had every excuse, for she was lithe, and beautiful, and a joyous companion; besides being, as the lady’s maid justly remarked, a perfect lady.