Mrs. Dewsbury darted round her the restless eye of a hostess, to
see upon whom she could socially bestow him. "Oh, come this way,"
she said, sweeping across the lawn towards a girl in a blue dress
at the opposite corner. "You must know our new-comer. I want to
introduce you to Miss Barton, from Cambridge. She's SUCH a nice
girl too,--the Dean of Dunwich's daughter."

Alan Merrick drew back with a vague gesture of distaste. "Oh,
thank you," he replied; "but, do you know, I don't think I like
deans, Mrs. Dewsbury." Mrs. Dewsbury's smile was recondite and
diplomatic. "Then you'll exactly suit one another," she answered
with gay wisdom. "For, to tell you the truth, I don't think SHE
does either."

The young man allowed himself to be led with a passive protest in
the direction where Mrs. Dewsbury so impulsively hurried him. He
heard that cultivated voice murmuring in the usual inaudible tone
of introduction, "Miss Barton, Mr. Alan Merrick." Then he raised
his hat. As he did so, he looked down at Herminia Barton's face
with a sudden start of surprise. Why, this was a girl of most
unusual beauty!

She was tall and dark, with abundant black hair, richly waved above
the ample forehead; and she wore a curious Oriental-looking navy-blue
robe of some soft woollen stuff, that fell in natural folds
and set off to the utmost the lissome grace of her rounded figure.
It was a sort of sleeveless sack, embroidered in front with
arabesques in gold thread, and fastened obliquely two inches below
the waist with a belt of gilt braid, and a clasp of Moorish jewel-work.
Beneath it, a bodice of darker silk showed at the arms and