Away from the lawn, behind the beech tree, a moss-grown wall into which a little gate was set, gave promise of scent and colour within--of a garden enclosed. This particular enclosure, one of many, was known as the “lavender garden.” It was arranged in the formal Dutch fashion--divided into square beds filled with pink monthly roses, each bed surrounded by a thick border of lavender. A sundial stood in the midst, and against the sundial, her elbows resting upon its lichen-stained plate, leant Anne Page, her face turned towards the lingering sunset. She was expecting friends to dinner, but unable to resist the temptation of the garden, she had wandered from the drawing-room into the sweet evening air. She wore a dress the colour of which, in its shades of grey-green and purple, might have been suggested by the lavender in the borders. It was a graceful flowing dress; beautiful naturally, inevitably. Anne Page possessed the gift of surrounding herself with everything that was exquisite, as simply as a flower surrounds itself with leaves and dainty buds. She was not a young woman. She had indeed travelled quite far on the road that leads from youth to death. It was even on record that a girl staying at the vicarage had alluded to her as an old lady. Every one had started with shocked surprise. None of Anne Page’s friends were accustomed to consider her age. To them, she was just “beautiful Miss Page.” In the same way, one never thought of analyzing her appearance, nor of criticizing her features. It would have seemed an impertinence. One felt vaguely that she would have been quite as lovely without any, for her beauty was like a rare effect of light that has no connection with the object it transfigures. Certainly her face had the delicacy of a white rose. Certainly her eyes were blue; blue as cornflowers; blue as the sea. But they were Miss Page’s eyes, and one instinctively compared them to lovely natural things. She turned her head as the gate creaked. Burks, in a frilled apron and a becoming cap with streamers, was hurrying up the path towards the sundial. “There’s a carriage coming up the drive, ma’am,” she said. “Thank you, Burks, I’ll come.” The maid hastened back, her skirts ruffling the lavender borders, and, gathering up the filmy folds of her own gown, her mistress followed her. At the gate, she turned for a last glance at the dying sunset sky. On her way across the lawn, she noticed, with a thrill of pleasure, the beauty of the trees, motionless, dreaming in the dusk. White and slim in the half-light, the little fountain suggested to her a strayed nymph, transfixed with surprise and fear to find herself so near the haunts of man. Smiling at the fancy, Anne entered the drawing-room by one of the long open windows, and waited for her guests. In a few moments, Burks admitted the Vicar and his wife. The Reverend George Carfax was of the type already somewhat _vieux jeu_, of the muscular school of Christianity.