She had evidently spent an active ten minutes while we waited for her. She
had done her hair, and she was, so far as I could judge from
superficialities, completely dressed. Also she had lighted the lamp in
what I took to be the chief sitting-room of the farm.

As a room it deserved attention, but it was not until I had been there for
ten minutes or more, that I realised all that the furniture of that room
was not. My first observations were solely directed to Miss Banks.

Jervaise had grossly maligned her by saying that she was "frightfully
pretty." No one but a fool would have called her "pretty." Either she was
beautiful or plain. I saw, even then, that if the light of her soul had
been quenched, she might appear plain. Her features were good, her
complexion, her colouring--she was something between dark and fair--but
she did not rely on those things for her beauty. It was the glow of her
individuality that was her surpassing charm. She had that supremely
feminine vitality which sends a man crazy with worship. You had to adore
or dislike her. There was no middle course.

And Jervaise quite obviously adored her. All that tactful confession of
his in the park had been a piece of artifice. It had not, however, been
framed to deceive _me_. I do not believe that he considered me worth
bothering about. No, those admissions and denials of his had been
addressed, without doubt, to a far more important person than myself. They
had been in the nature of a remonstrance and assurance spoken to Frank
Jervaise by the heir to the estate; which heir was determined with all the
force of his ferocious nose and dominant chin to help him, that he would
not make a fool of himself for the sake of the daughter of a tenant
farmer. I had been nothing more than the register upon which he had