Charming as Nette had appeared in her simple walking dress, Antony was utterly unprepared for the picture she now presented. In the absurd and yet wonderfully effective setting of the brown, budding trees, the broken and forbidding rocks, against the dull background of the dingy, decaying hut, her soft, pale tints of hat and gown gleamed like some one of the perfumed daintinesses Watteau traced upon his tricksy, tempting court fans. The whole costume, from the sweeping cavalier feather to the saucy, buckled slippers, recalled subtly that delightful pretense at Arcadia, that amusing pastoral figuring and posturing that broke under a sigh too ardent, a pressure too fiery, into the scented powder puff and the satin stays. One looked for a spinet, garlanded with golden cupids, for a white lamb smelling like Araby the blest, for a wreathed crook with a tiny mirror artfully set in its curve. To gaze upon that diabolically contrived simplicity was to produce in the susceptible breast, and most particularly in the susceptible masculine breast, an odd tumult of sensations too conflicting in their nature for description. Nette's hair ran vine-like under the melting, tender-coloured plume; her skin glowed softly rosy, and two faint violet shadows under her brilliant eyes toned sweetly with the colours of her misleading gown. Around her neck on a slender golden chain was hung a singularly perfect fresh-water pearl, large, with shifting colours, utterly unadorned by any jeweller's fancies; an odd and very elegant bauble that caught Antony's eye instantly. "Mademoiselle," he began, "you are--you are----" he paused, for genuine lack of words. "You are absurdly charming," he concluded, not altogether lamely, after all, and she swept him a graceful courtesy, her long, pale sash-ends floating out against the rough bark behind her. Nor was Master Antony displeased at the satisfaction at his appearance which he surprised in her eyes. Intrinsically inartistic indeed is the garb of our modern male, and yet to our accustomed eye there is a fine air of fitness, a grave elegance, in his sombre bifurcation; an ordered poetry in his candid vest, his lustrous neck scarf; a twinkling luxuriousness in his polished and costly footwear. All this appeared to perfection in Antony's dignified figure, just sufficiently above the middle height to allow of his being called tall. "The sleeves," he informed her, "are a little short and I am not sure that I have not stretched the shoulder seams a little, but the shoes are exactly my own size. The underwear," he added absently, "was silk. Apricot colour----" "My shoes," she began hastily, "are too large, but I think I can keep them on. The skirt is too long, of course, but I can hold it up. The hat," she concluded, with softened eyes, "I should like to be buried in."