George Brand and his friend Evelyn sat in the back row of chairs,
watching the people pass and repass. It was a sombre procession, but
that here and there appeared a young English girl in her pale spring
costume--paler than the fresh glow of youth and health on her face, and
that here and there the sunlight, wandering down through the branches,
touched a scarlet sunshade--just then coming into fashion--until that
shone like a beautiful spacious flower among the mass of green.

When they had been silently watching the people for some little time,
Brand said, almost to himself,

"How very unlike those women she is!"

"Who? Oh, Natalie Lind," said the other, who had been speaking of her
some minutes before. "Well, that is natural and I don't say it to their
disadvantage. I believe most girls are well-intended enough; but, of
course, they grow up in a particular social atmosphere, and it depends
on that what they become. If it is rather fast, the girl sees nothing
objectionable in being fast too. If it is religious, the god of her
idolatry is a bishop. If it is sporting, she thinks mostly about horses.
Natalie is exceptional, because she has been brought up in exceptional
circumstances. For one thing, she has been a good deal alone; and she
has formed all sorts of beautiful idealisms and aspirations--"

The conversation dropped here; for at the moment Lord Evelyn espied two
of his sisters coming along in the slow procession.

"Here come two of the girls," he said to his friend. "How precious
demure they look!"