She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the
shade of a large sycamore.

A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps
to meet us.

"My wife, Hastings," said John.

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall,
slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense
of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those
wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any
other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of
stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the
impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised
body--all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never
forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low
clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly
glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave
me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first
impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An
appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in
a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in
a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John,
of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.