'She is intelligent, gracious, and sympathetic,' Armorel repeated. 'Is she gracious to everybody--even to people she does not like?' 'In society,' said Roland, 'we like everybody. We are all perfectly well-bred and well-behaved: we always say the kindest things about each other.' 'Now you are saying one thing and meaning another. That is like your friend Dick Stephenson. Don't, Roland.' 'Well, then, I have very little more to say. This girl, however, is always a woman's woman.' 'What is that?' 'Difficult to explain. A wise lady once advised me when I went courting, first to make quite sure that the girl was a woman's woman. I think she meant that other girls should speak and think well of her. I haven't always remembered the advice, it is true, but----' Here he stopped short and in some confusion, remembering that this was not an occasion for plenary confession. But Armorel only nodded gravely. 'I shall remember,' she said. 'The rest you know. She loves everything that is beautiful and good. She hates everything that is coarse and ugly. That is all.' 'Thank you--I shall remember,' she repeated. 'Roland, you must have thought a good deal about girls to know so much.' He blushed: he really did. He blushed a rich and rosy red. 'An artist, you know,' he said, 'has to draw beautiful girls. Naturally he thinks of the lovely soul behind the lovely face. These things are only commonplaces. You yourself, Armorel--you--will shame me, presently--when you have grown to that full height--for drawing a picture so insufficient of the Perfect Woman.' He stooped slightly, as if he would have kissed her forehead. Why not? She was but a child. But he refrained. [Illustration: _He stooped slightly, as if he would have kissed her forehead._] 'Let us go home,' he said, with a certain harshness in his voice. 'The sun is down. The clouds have covered up the belt of blue. You have seen your splendid future, Armorel, and you are back in the grey and sunless present. It grows cold. To-morrow, I think, we may have rain. Let us go home, child: let us go home.' CHAPTER X MR. FLETCHER RETURNS FOR HIS BAG Half an hour later the blinds were down, the fire was brightly burning, the red firelight was merrily dancing about the room, and the table was pushed back. Then Dorcas and Justinian came in--the two old serving-folk, bent with age, grey-headed, toothless--followed by Chessun--thin and tall, silent and subdued. And Armorel, taking her violin, tuned it, and turned to her old master for instructions, just as she had done on the first and every following night of Roland's stay. '"Barley Break,"' said Justinian.