"Heigh-ho!" sighed Gwendolen, and she poured the bran-mash into a bowl and took it up to her father's room. For eighteen years Gwendolen French had been the daughter of John French of Primrose Farm. Endowed by Nature with a beauty that is seldom seen outside this sort of story, she was yet as modest and as good a girl as was to be found in the county. Many a fine lady would have given all her Parisian diamonds for the peach-like complexion which bloomed on the fair face of Gwendolen. But the gifts of Nature are not to be bought and sold. There was a sudden knock at the door. "Come in," cried Gwendolen in surprise. Unless it was the cow, it was an entirely unexpected visitor. A tall and handsome young man entered, striking his head violently against a beam as he stepped into the low-ceilinged kitchen. "Good morning," he said, repressing the remark which came more readily to his lips. "Pray forgive this intrusion. The fact is I have lost my way, and I wondered whether you would be kind enough to inform me as to my whereabouts." Gwendolen curtsied. "This is Primrose Farm, Sir," she said. "I fear," he replied with a smile, "it has been my misfortune never to have heard so charming a name before. I am Lord Beltravers of Beltravers Castle, Beltravers. Having returned last night from India I came out for an early stroll this morning, and I fear that I have wandered out of my direction." "Why," cried Gwendolen, "your lordship is miles from Beltravers Castle. How tired and hungry you must be." She removed a lettuce from the kitchen-chair, dusted it, and offered it to him. (That is to say, the chair.) "Let me get you some milk," she added. Picking up a pail she went out to inspect the cow. "Gad," said Lord Beltravers, as soon as he was alone. He paced rapidly up and down the tiled kitchen. "Deuce take it," he added recklessly, "she's a lovely girl." The Beltraverses were noted in two continents for their hard swearing. "Here you are, Sir," said Gwendolen, returning with the precious liquid. Lord Beltravers seized the pail and drained it at a draught. "Heavens, but that was good!" he said. "What was it?" "Milk," said Gwendolen. "Milk, I must remember. And now may I trespass on your hospitality still further by trespassing on your assistance so far as to solicit your help in putting me far enough on my path to discover my way back to Beltravers Castle?" (When he was alone he said that sentence again to himself, and wondered what had happened to it.) "I will show you," she said simply. They passed out into the sunlit orchard. In an apple-tree a thrush was singing; the gooseberries were overripe; beet-roots were flowering everywhere. "You are very beautiful," he said. "Yes," said Gwendolen. "I must see you again. Listen! To-night my mother, Lady Beltravers, is giving a ball. Do you dance?" "Alas, not the Tango," she said sadly. "The Beltraverses do not tang," he announced with simple dignity. "You valse? Good. Then will you come?"