I will introduce my readers to two of the personages with whom I wish to
make them acquainted in the following story. It was now the end of
August, and the parterres, beds, and bits of lawn were dry, disfigured,
and almost ugly, from the effects of a long drought. In gardens to which
care and labor are given abundantly, flower-beds will be pretty, and
grass will be green, let the weather be what it may; but care and labor
were but scantily bestowed on the Clavering Gardens, and everything was
yellow, adust, harsh, and dry. Over the burnt turf toward a gate that
led to the house, a lady was walking, and by her side there walked a
gentleman.

"You are going in, then, Miss Brabazon," said the gentleman, and it was
very manifest from his tone that he intended to convey some deep
reproach in his words.

"Of course I am going in," said the lady. "You asked me to walk with
you, and I refused. You have now waylaid me, and therefore I shall
escape--unless I am prevented by violence." As she spoke she stood still
for a moment, and looked into his face with a smile which seemed to
indicate that if such violence were used, within rational bounds, she
would not feel herself driven to great danger.

But though she might be inclined to be playful, he was by no means in
that mood. "And why did you refuse me when I asked you?" said he.

"For two reasons, partly because I thought it better to avoid any
conversation with you."

"That is civil to an old friend."