The mildness of the atmosphere, those little gushes of song from the birds, the booming buzz of an industrious bee, the faint ripple of the river, made a combination of sound that by and by beguiled him into forgetfulness, or not quite forgetfulness, rather a pleasant blending of waking thought and dreaming fancy. How long this respite from the cares of actual life lasted he knew not; but after a while the sweet voice of his enchantress, which had mingled itself with all his dreams, seemed to grow more distinct, ceased to be a vague murmur responsive to the voice of his heart, and sounded clear and ringing in the still afternoon atmosphere. He woke with a start, and saw a tall slim figure coming slowly along the path, half in sunshine, half in shadow—a lady with a face perfect as a Greek sculptor’s Helen, dark chestnut hair, eyes of that deep gray which often seems black—a woman about whose beauty there could hardly be two opinions. She was dressed in black and gray—a black-silk dress of the simplest fashion, a loose mantle of some soft gray stuff, which draped her like a statue, a bonnet made of black lace and violets. She was talking to a little girl with a small round face, which might or might not by and by develop into some likeness of the mother’s beauty. The child carried a basket, and knelt down every now and then to gather primroses and violets on the uneven ground beside the path. ‘Sweet child,’ said Geoffrey within himself, apostrophising the infant, ‘if you would only run ever so far away, and leave me quite free to talk to your mamma!’ He rose and went to meet her, taking off his hat as she approached. ‘I would not lose such an opportunity for worlds,’ he thought, ‘even at the risk of being considered a despicable cad. I’ll speak to her.’ She tried to pass him, those glorious eyes overlooking him with a superb indifference, not a sign of discomposure in her countenance. But he was resolute. ‘Mrs. Bertram,’ he began, ‘pray pardon me for my audacity: desperation is apt to be rash. I have tried every means of obtaining an introduction to you, and am driven to this from very despair.’ She gave him a look which made him feel infinitely small in his own estimation. ‘You have chosen a manner of introducing yourself which is hardly a recommendation,’ she said, ‘even were I in the habit of making acquaintances, which I am not. Pray allow me to continue my walk. Come, Flossie, pick up your basket, and come with mamma.’ ‘How can you be so cruel?’ he asked, almost piteously. ‘Why are you so determined to avoid me? I am not a scoundrel or a snob. If my mode of approaching you to-day seems ungentlemanlike—’ ‘Seems!’ she repeated, with languid scorn.