shawl and a heavy white umbrella, such as painters use for sketching.
Meanwhile she was trying to thrust into her pocket a paper-covered
volume which Longmore saw to be the poems of Andre Chenier, and in the
effort dropping the large umbrella and marking this with a half-smiled
exclamation of disgust. Longmore stepped forward and picked up the
umbrella, and as she, protesting her gratitude, put out her hand to take
it, he recognised her as too obliging to the young man who had preceded
her.

"You've too much to carry," he said; "you must let me help you."

"You're very good, monsieur," she answered. "My husband always forgets
something. He can do nothing without his umbrella. He is d'une
etourderie--"

"You must allow me to carry the umbrella," Longmore risked; "there's too
much of it for a lady."

She assented, after many compliments to his politeness; and he walked
by her side into the meadow. She went lightly and rapidly, picking her
steps and glancing forward to catch a glimpse of her husband. She was
graceful, she was charming, she had an air of decision and yet of
accommodation, and it seemed to our friend that a young artist would
work none the worse for having her seated at his side reading Chenier's
iambics. They were newly married, he supposed, and evidently their path
of life had none of the mocking crookedness of some others. They asked
little; but what need to ask more than such quiet summer days by a shady
stream, with a comrade all amiability, to say nothing of art and books
and a wide unmenaced horizon? To spend such a morning, to stroll back to
dinner in the red-tiled parlour of the inn, to ramble away again as the