In the month of May, seven years after the flight of the two boys
from Moncrief House, a lady sat in an island of shadow which was
made by a cedar-tree in the midst of a glittering green lawn. She
did well to avoid the sun, for her complexion was as delicately
tinted as mother-of-pearl. She was a small, graceful woman, with
sensitive lips and nostrils, green eyes, with quiet, unarched brows,
and ruddy gold hair, now shaded by a large, untrimmed straw hat. Her
dress of Indian muslin, with half-sleeves terminating at the elbows
in wide ruffles, hardly covered her shoulders, where it was
supplemented by a scarf through which a glimpse of her throat was
visible in a nest of soft Tourkaris lace. She was reading a little
ivory-bound volume--a miniature edition of the second part of
Goethe's "Faust."

As the afternoon wore on and the light mellowed, the lady dropped
her book and began to think and dream, unconscious of a prosaic
black object crossing the lawn towards her. This was a young
gentleman in a frock coat. He was dark, and had a long, grave face,
with a reserved expression, but not ill-looking.

"Going so soon, Lucian?" said the lady, looking up as he came into
the shadow.

Lucian looked at her wistfully. His name, as she uttered it, always
stirred him vaguely. He was fond of finding out the reasons of
things, and had long ago decided that this inward stir was due to
her fine pronunciation. His other intimates called him Looshn.

"Yes," he said. "I have arranged everything, and have come to give