its winding stream, and veiled the distant hills. Meadows's companion,
Ralph Barrow, a young novelist of promise, had gone fast asleep on the
grass; Meadows was drowsing over his book; the dogs slept on the terrace
steps; and in the summer silence the murmur of the river far below stole
up the hill on which the house stood, and its soft song held the air.

Suddenly there was a disturbance. The dogs sprang up and barked. There
was a firm step on the gravel. Lady Dunstable, stick in hand, her short
leather-bound skirt showing boots and gaiters of the most business-like
description, came quickly towards the seat on which Meadows sat.

"Mr. Meadows, I summon you for a walk! Sir Luke and Mr. Frome are
coming. We propose to get to the tarn and back before lunch."

The tarn was at least two miles away, a stiff climb over difficult moor.
Meadows, startled from something very near sleep, looked up, and a
spirit of revolt seized upon him, provoked by the masterful tone and
eyes of the lady.

"Very sorry, Lady Dunstable!--but I must write some letters before
luncheon."

"Oh no!--put them off! I have been thinking of what you told me
yesterday of your scheme for your new set of lectures. I have a great
deal to say to you about it."

"I really shouldn't be worth talking to now," laughed Meadows; "this
heat has made me so sleepy. To-night--or after tea--by all means!"

Lady Dunstable looked annoyed.