"Good gracious, Roger, how you made me jump!" And Kitty hurriedly
lowered a pair of smartly-shod feet which had been occupying a somewhat
elevated position in the hammock.

"I'm sorry. How d'you do, Kit? And how are you, Miss Davenant?"
answered the new-comer.

The alteration in his voice as he addressed Nan was quite perceptible
to anyone well-versed in the symptoms of the state of being in love,
and his piercing light-grey eyes beneath their shaggy, sunburnt
brows--fierce, far-visioned eyes that reminded one of the eyes of a
hawk--softened amazingly as they rested upon her charming face.

"Oh, we're quite all right, thanks," she answered. "That is, when
people don't drop suddenly from the clouds and galvanise us into action
this warm weather."

She regarded him with a faintly quizzical smile. He was not
particularly attractive in appearance, though tall and well-built.
About forty-two, a typical English sportsman of the out-door,
cold-tub-in-the-morning genus, he had a square-jawed, rather ugly face,
roofed with a crop of brown hair a trifle sunburnt at its tips as a
consequence of long days spent in the open. His mouth indicated a
certain amount of self-will, the inborn imperiousness of a man who has
met with obedient services as a matter of course, and whose forebears,
from one generation to another, have always been masters of men. And,
it might be added, masters of their women-kind as well, in the good,
old-fashioned way. There was, too, more than a hint of obstinacy and
temper in the long, rather projecting chin and dominant nose.