Presently he sought the space where they had played. But the Field of the Cloth of Gold was transformed. Where the dandelions had spread their splendour for Mary he saw a market-garden, and the sun that had made a halo for Mary glittered on glass. There was a quantity of glass, there were consequential rows of it, all raising money for somebody, all reminding the pilgrim that meadows move with the times. "Well, I suppose it's progress," said Conrad, shaking his head. But he missed the dandelions. He was a Conservative by instinct, though he was a Liberal by reason. When he loitered back to the view of Mowbray Lodge, a lady of the age which it is gallant to call "uncertain" had come out on the veranda. She had a little shawl over her shoulders, and in her hand she held a pair of scissors with which she was clipping a palm. The placid gaze she lifted to him was not discouraging, and advancing towards her with a bow he said:-- "Pray forgive me for troubling you, but may I ask if Mr. Boultbee lives here now?" "N--no," answered the lady pensively, "no gentleman lives here. 'Mr. Boultbee'? I'm afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure he is still living in the town?" "I am sure of nothing," replied Conrad. "It is so long since my last visit that I am even doubtful if he is living at all." She seemed to reflect again and said: "Perhaps they might be able to tell you at the post-office." "It really isn't important," he declared, "though I'm obliged by your suggestion. To confess the truth, I am more drawn to the garden than to Mr. Boultbee. Years ago I spent a summer here, and being in the neighbourhood again I couldn't resist the temptation to come and dream over the top rail of your gate." "Oh--er--would you care to look round the place?" she murmured with a tentative wave of the scissors. "I should be charmed," said Conrad, "if I am not intruding." "Of course you don't see it to advantage now. Last month--" She moved across the lawn beside him, telling the falsehoods with which everybody who has a garden always dejects a visitor. He affected that thirst for knowledge with which everybody who is shown a garden always rewards a host. "It's a long time since you were here, I think you said?" she remarked, pleased by his eagerness. "It is," said Conrad, in his most Byronic manner, "just a quarter of a century." The lady looked startled, and he continued with a sigh, "Yes, I was then in that exquisitely happy period of life when we just begin to know that we are happy; you may imagine what memories are stirring in me:-- "'I can recall, nay, they are present still, Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind, Days that seem farther off than Homer's now Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy' ... That poem--Lowell's 'The Cathedral'--flashed into my mind as I came upon your parish church awhile ago, and "'gazed abashed, Child of an age that lectures, not creates,'