“She longs for a gallop;” said Maryllia, patting the fine creature’s glossy neck; “Don’t you, Cleo?  Her name is Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.  Isn’t she a beauty?”

“She is indeed!” murmured Walden, with conventional politeness, though he scarcely glanced at the eulogised animal.

“She isn’t a bit safe, you know,” continued Maryllia; “Nobody can hold her but me!  She’s a perfectly magnificent hunter.  I have another one who is gentleness itself, called Daffodil.  My groom rides her.  He could never ride Cleo.”  She paused, patting the mare’s neck again,—­then gathering up the reins in her small, loosely-gloved hand, she said:  “Well, good-morning, Mr. Walden!  It was most kind of you to get up so early and come to help defend my trees!  I am ever so grateful to you!  Pray call and see me at the Manor when you have nothing better to do.  You will be very welcome!”

She nodded gracefully to him, and a few loose curls of lovely hair fell with the action like a web of sunbeams over her brow.  Smiling, she tossed them back.

“Good-bye!” she called.

He raised his hat,—­and in another moment the gallop of Cleopatra’s swift hoofs thudded across the grass and echoed over the fields, gradually diminishing and dying away, as mare and rider disappeared within the enfolding green of the Manor woods.  He stood for a while looking after the vanishing flash of violet, brown and gold, scudding over the turf and disappearing under the closely twisted boughs of budding oak and elm,—­and then started to walk home himself.  His face was a study of curiously mingled expressions.  Surprise, amusement, and a touch of admiration struggled for the mastery in his mind, and he was compelled to admit to himself, albeit reluctantly, that the doubtfully-anticipated ‘Squire-ess’ was by no means the sort of person he had expected to see.  Herein he was at one with Bainton.

“’Like a little sugar figure on a wedding-cake, looking sweet, and smiling pleasant!’” thought Walden, humorously recalling his gardener’s description; “Scarcely that!  She has a will of her own, and—­possibly—­a temper!  A kind of spoilt child-woman, I should imagine; just the person to wear all the fripperies Mrs. Spruce was so anxious about the other day, and quite frivolous enough to squeeze her feet into shoes a couple of sizes too small for her.  Beautiful?  No,—­her features are not regular enough for actual beauty.  Pretty?  Well,—­perhaps she is!—­in a certain sense,—­but I’m no judge.  Fascinating?  Possibly she might be—­to some men.  She certainly has a sweet voice, and a very charming manner.  And I don’t think she is likely to be disagreeable or discourteous.  But there is nothing remarkable about her—­she’s just a woman—­with a bright smile,—­and a touch of American vivacity running through her English insularity.  Just a woman—­with a way!”