“Will you promise not to whisk yourself away if I look down?” he asked.

“Yes.”

But even with this assurance he found it difficult to remove his eyes from her even for the brief instant necessary for a safe passage; and when at last he stood beside her he felt an irresistible desire to seize her gently so that she could not escape.

“Well?” she said at length, and he found he had been standing stock-still staring at her for several seconds.

“Excuse me!  I really took you for a wood-nymph.  I’m not sure yet—­ you see the place is so well suited.  It—­it was a natural mistake.”

She dropped her eyes shyly and turned away at his look.

“It is only our swimming-pool.  There have been no fairies here since I was a very little girl.  But once upon a time there were many—­oh, a great many.”  It was impossible to describe the odd, sweet sound her tongue gave to the English words.  It was not a dialect, hardly an accent, just a delicious, hesitating mannerism born of unfamiliarity.

“Did you ever see them?”

“N-no!  I arrived always a little too late.  But there are such things.”

He nodded.  “Everybody knows that since ‘Peter Pan.’”

Another shy glance told her that he was still regarding her with his look of wondering admiration.  She pointed to a path, saying: 

“This way will bring you to the road, sir, if you wish.”

“But—­I don’t wish—­not yet.”  He sought wildly for an excuse to stay, and exclaimed:  “Oh, the orchid.  I must get it for you.”

“That will be very nice of you, sir.  For two years I have awaited its blooming.  If you had not arrived I would have got it, anyhow.”

“Girls shouldn’t climb trees,” he said, severely.  “It tears their dresses.”

“Oh, one cannot tear a dress like this.”  She glanced down at her skirt.  Allowing his eyes to leave her face for a moment, Kirk saw that she was clad, oddly enough, in a suit of denim, which was buttoned snugly clear to her neck.  It struck him as most inappropriate, yet it was extremely well made, and he could not complain of the effect.

He broke his gun and removed the shells; then, leaving it beside the bath-house, went to the tree where he had first seen her.  With one hand resting upon the trunk, he turned to say: 

“Promise you won’t disappear while I’m up there, or change into a squirrel, or a bird, or anything like that.”

“What a funny man you are!”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you want this orchid?”

“To put it in the house.”

Instead of beginning his climb, the young man lounged idly against the tree.

“Funny how I found you, wasn’t it?” he remarked.  “I mean it’s funny I should have stumbled right on you this way—­there’s only one of you and one of me, and—­er—­this country is so big!  I might have gone some other way and then perhaps we’d never have met.”  He contemplated this contingency for an instant.  “And if you hadn’t spoken I’d never have seen you, either.”