She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before--nor any female, save, now and then, a village girl come to gather nuts. To-night the apparition does not displease him. He observes, as she approaches, that she is neither old nor plain, but, on the contrary, very youthful; and, but that he now recognizes her for one whom he has often wilfully pronounced ugly, he would deem that he discovered traits of beauty behind the thin gauze of that veil.
She passes him and says nothing. He knew she would. All women are proud monkeys, and he knows no more conceited doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind when the lady retraces those two steps she had got beyond him, and raising her veil, reposes her glance on his face, while she softly asks, "Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons?"
No human evidence would ever have been able to persuade Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush he did, to the ears.
"I am," he said bluntly, and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.

She is dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before. He observes that she is young; and, if not for the fact that he now recognizes her as one whom he has often pronounced ugly, he would think her beautiful behind the thin gauze of that veil.
She passes him and says nothing. He knew she would. All women are proud monkeys, and he knows no more conceited doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind when the lady retraces her steps to him, raises her veil, and softly asks, "Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons?"
No evidence would ever have persuaded Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush he did, to the ears.
"I am," he said bluntly, and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.
