He walked hurriedly on for a few paces, and then bethought him that somewhere close in the neighbourhood was the gate leading to the fir-plantation in which he had recently walked with Barbara on their return from the shooting-party. He had the whole afternoon to do nothing in, and it would be pleasant to renew the remembrance of that happy jesting talk. Memory, he thought rather bitterly, was a luxury which it did not require either rank or riches to enjoy. He struck across the dry crisp turf, and arrived at the gate; it opened on a short gravelled walk, with low palings on either side, terminating in a rustic stile, on the other side of which lay the fir-plantation. As Churchill entered the path he saw a figure seated on the stile at the other end, and in an instant knew it to be Barbara Lexden. Her head was bent, and she was leaning forward, idly tracing figures on the turf with the point of her parasol. Churchill advanced with a strange fluttering of his usually regular-beating heart; but she did not appear to hear his footstep until he was close behind her, when she suddenly turned round, and their eyes met. It was a trying time for both, but Barbara was the first to speak. "So soon back, Mr. Churchill? We--that is, Sir Marmaduke was led to believe that you would not return until the end of the week." "Fortunately, Miss Lexden, my business in town was soon finished" ("Question of settlement with the lawyer, or naming the day with the lady," thought Barbara), "and I got back as quickly as I could. How lovely this place looks! Perhaps it seems doubly beautiful after twenty-four hours in London; but it appears to me even fresher, calmer, and more peaceful than when I left it." "That, I suspect, is your poetic imagination, Mr. Churchill. You were praising Dryden the other night, and can now quote him to your own purposes. You know he says: 'Winds murmured through the leaves his short delay, And fountains o'er their pebbles chid his stay; But, with his presence cheered, they cease to mourn, And walks seem fresher green at his return.'" "Aptly quoted, though the lines were addressed to a lady, and for 'his' read 'your.' I don't think that even the fountains in Trafalgar Square would be weak enough to 'chide my stay.' But, apropos of poetic imagination, I am afraid I disturbed you from some deep reverie." "You never were more mistaken," said Barbara, with a short laugh. "I--I came out on a much more unromantic expedition. I lost a glove a day or two ago, and--and fancied I might have dropped it somewhere here." "Is this it?" asked Churchill suddenly, taking from his pocket a morocco-leather case, and producing from it the much-prized pearl-gray. "Yes," said Barbara, glancing quickly at him from under her drooping eyelids; "that is it. How very fortunate!"