The picture of Ida is stamped indelibly upon my memory. She wore a large straw hat of some fantastic shape, lined with pale blue, and adorned with a bunch of tea roses. Her gown, too, was a combination of cream-colour and blue, and, as she moved languidly over the grass, she reminded me of one of those Watteau-like figures that are painted on fans. She took very little notice of me, greeting me with a cool courtesy which I repaid with some haughtiness. Ronald was watching our meeting with a furtive glance, and did not seem to be as much at ease as usual. William Greystock, too, watched, and his face was as inscrutable as ever. Miss Lorimer took possession of my husband in the most natural way in the world. She displayed no coquettish airs; she did not appear to make any marked exhibition of power; but quite easily and calmly she summoned him to her side with a few commonplace words. "Let us try to get nearer to those deer," she said. "I keep up my old fondness for animals, and deer are the most delightful creatures in the universe." It was a clever way of separating herself and Ronald from the rest of the party. He attended her, willingly enough; they went together towards the herd, which, of course, moved off at their nearer approach; and then the pair followed, although they must have known the uselessness of the pursuit. My glance went after them, over the soft grass, now golden with the light of the afternoon sun. What a fair scene it was, those great trees casting their shadows across the sunlit turf; the dappled herds, the mellow haze filling up every space, the two graceful figures moving farther and farther away! With a start, I found William Greystock close to my side, and heard him speaking to me in a peculiarly quiet voice. "I used to dream of walking here with some dear friend, Mrs. Hepburne," he said. "An afternoon like this always revives old dreams. Mine have never been realised; Ronald has been more fortunate than I have." "Ah! It is not always a blessing to realise one's dream!" The words broke from me involuntarily, and were spoken to myself rather than to my companion. But he answered the remark with a touch of sadness in his tone. "That is a bitter speech to come from your lips," he said, softly. "I hope you do not speak from your own experience." "Oh! I suppose people's experiences are very much alike," I replied, with an attempt at lightness. "There is always the inevitable disenchantment when we have fairly entered our promised land." He sighed, and there was a brief silence. "It is a kind of disenchantment I shall never know," he said at last. "All that I have known is the weary march across the desert, the gnawing hunger and burning thirst. Even if the Canaan is less fair than our fancies, it must, at any rate, be sweeter than the endless waste of sand." At that moment I sincerely pitied William Greystock.