I.





Mrs. Dewsbury's lawn was held by those who knew it the loveliest in
Surrey. The smooth and springy sward that stretched in front of
the house was all composed of a tiny yellow clover. It gave
beneath the foot like the pile on velvet. One's gaze looked forth
from it upon the endless middle distances of the oak-clad Weald,
with the uncertain blue line of the South Downs in the background.
Ridge behind ridge, the long, low hills of paludina limestone stood
out in successive tiers, each thrown up against its neighbor by the
misty haze that broods eternally over the wooded valley; till,
roaming across them all, the eye rested at last on the rearing
scarp of Chanctonbury Ring, faintly pencilled on the furthest skyline.
Shadowy phantoms of dim heights framed the verge to east and
west. Alan Merrick drank it in with profound satisfaction. After
those sharp and clear-cut Italian outlines, hard as lapis lazuli,
the mysterious vagueness, the pregnant suggestiveness, of our
English scenery strikes the imagination; and Alan was fresh home
from an early summer tour among the Peruginesque solidities of the
Umbrian Apennines. "How beautiful it all is, after all," he said,
turning to his entertainer. "In Italy 'tis the background the
painter dwells upon; in England, we look rather at the middle
distance."