Yet
her dishevelled state became her well, and the welcome in her face
delighted him. She remembered him, she was glad. He, too, was glad,
and a sense both happy and reckless stirred in his heart. "Like a wild
animal," he said, "you come out in the dusk----"

"To play with my kind," she answered in a flash, throwing him a glance
of invitation that made his blood go dancing. He leaned against the statue a moment, asking himself why this young
Cinderella of a parvenu family delighted him when all the London
beauties left him cold. There was a lift through his whole being as
he watched her, slim and supple, grace shining through the untidy
modern garb--almost as though she wore no clothes. He thought of a
panther standing upright. Her poise was so alert--one arm upon the
marble ledge, one leg bent across the other, the hip-line showing like
a bird's curved wing. Wild animal or bird, flashed across his mind:
something untamed and natural. Another second, and she might leap
away--or spring into his arms. It was a deep, stirring sensation in him that produced the mental
picture. "Pure and natural," a voice whispered with it in his heart,
"as surely as _they_ are just the other thing!" And the thrill struck
with unerring aim at the very root of that unrest he had always known
in the state of life to which he was called. She made it natural,
clean, and pure. This girl and himself were somehow kin. The primitive
thing broke loose in him. In two seconds, while he stood with her beside the vulgar statue,
these thoughts passed through his mind. But he did not at first give
utterance to any of them. He spoke more formally, although laughter,
due to his happiness, lay behind:

"They haven't asked you to the party, then? Or you don't care about it? Which is it?" "Both," she said, looking fearlessly into his face. "But I've been here
ten minutes already. Why were you so long?" This outspoken honesty was hardly what he expected, yet in another
sense he was not surprised. Her eyes were very penetrating, very
innocent, very frank. He felt her as clean and sweet as some young
fawn that asks plainly to be stroked and fondled. He told the truth:
"I couldn't get away before. I had to play about and----" when she
interrupted with impatience:

"_They_ don't really want you," she exclaimed scornfully. "I do." And, before he could choose one out of the several answers that rushed
into his mind, she nudged him with her foot, holding it out a little so
that he saw the shoelace was unfastened. She nodded her head towards
it, and pulled her skirt up half an inch as he at once stooped down. "And, anyhow," she went on as he fumbled with the lace, touching her
ankle with his hand, "you're going to marry one of them. I read it in
the paper. It's idiotic. You'll be miserable." The blood rushed to his head, but whether owing to his stooping or to
something else, he could not say. "I only came--I only accepted," he said quickly, "because I wanted to
see _you_ again." "Of course. I made mother ask you." He did an impulsive thing. Kneeling as he was, he bent his head a
little lower and suddenly kissed the soft grey stocking--then stood
up and looked her in the face. She was laughing happily, no sign of
embarrassment in her anywhere, no trace of outraged modesty. She just
looked very pleased. "I've tied a knot that won't come undone in a hurry----" he began,
then stopped dead. For as he said it, gazing into her smiling face,
another expression looked forth at him from the two big eyes of
hazel. Something rushed from his heart to meet it. It may have been
that playful kiss, it may have been the way she took it; but, at any
rate, there was a strength in the new emotion that made him unsure of
who he was and of whom he looked at. He forgot the place, the time,
his own identity and hers. The lawn swept from beneath his feet, the
English sunset with it. He forgot his host and hostess, his fellow
guests, even his father's name and his own into the bargain. He was
carried away upon a great tide, the girl always beside him. He left the
shore-line in the distance, already half forgotten, the shore-line of
his education, learning, manners, social point of view--everything to
which his father had most carefully brought him up as the scion of an
old-established English family. This girl had torn up the anchor. Only
the anchor had previously been loosened a little by his own unconscious
and restless efforts....

Where was she taking him to? Upon what island would they land? "I'm younger than you--a good deal," she broke in upon his rushing
mood. "But that doesn't matter a bit, does it? We're about the same age
really." With the happy sound of her voice the extraordinary sensation
passed--or, rather, it became normal. But that it had lasted an
appreciable time was proved by the fact that they had left the statue
on the lawn, the house was no longer visible behind them, and they were
walking side by side between the massive rhododendron clumps. They
brought up against a five-barred gate into the park. They leaned upon
the topmost bar, and he felt her shoulder touching his--edging into
it--as they looked across to the grove of pines. "I feel absurdly young," he said without a sign of affectation, "and
yet I've been looking for you a thousand years and more." The afterglow lit up her face; it fell on her loose hair and tumbled
blouse, turning them amber red. She looked not only soft and comely,
but extraordinarily beautiful. The strange expression haunted the deep
eyes again, the lips were a little parted, the young breast heaving
slightly, joy and excitement in her whole presentment. And as he
watched her he knew that all he had just felt was due to her close
presence, to her atmosphere, her perfume, her physical warmth and
vigour. It had emanated directly from her being. "Of course," she said, and laughed so that he felt her breath upon his
face. He bent lower to bring his own on a level, gazing straight into
her eyes that were fixed upon the field beyond. They were clear and
luminous as pools of water, and in their centre, sharp as a photograph,
he saw the reflection of the pine grove, perhaps a hundred yards
away. With detailed accuracy he saw it, empty and motionless in the
glimmering June dusk. Then something caught his eye. He examined the picture more closely. He drew slightly nearer. He almost touched her face with his own,
forgetting for a moment whose were the eyes that served him for a
mirror. For, looking intently thus, it seemed to him that there was
a movement, a passing to and fro, a stirring as of figures among the
trees.... Then suddenly the entire picture was obliterated. She had
dropped her lids. He heard her speaking--the warm breath was again upon
his face:

"In the heart of that wood dwell I." His heart gave another leap--more violent than the first--for the
wonder and beauty of the sentence caught him like a spell. There was
a lilt and rhythm in the words that made it poetry.