As the Janney motor turned out into the road a young woman was walking along one of these paths, returning to Grasslands. She appeared to be engrossed in thought, her step loitering, her eyes down-cast, a slight line showing between her brows. Out of range of the sun she had let her parasol droop over her shoulder and its green disk made a charming background for her head. She wore no hat and against the taut silk her hair showed a glossy, burnished brown. It was beautiful hair, growing low on her forehead and waving backward in loose undulations to the thick knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin was pale, her eyes, under long brows that lifted slightly at the outer ends, deep-set, narrow and dark. She was hardly handsome, but people noticed her, wondered why they did, and then said she was "artistic-looking," or maybe it was just personality; anyway, say what you like, there was something about her that caught your eye. Dressed entirely in white, a slim, sunburned hand coiled round the parasol handle, her throat left bare by a sailor collar, she was as trim, as flecklessly dainty, graceful and comely as a picture-girl painted on the green canvas of the trees. At the sight of her Chapman, who had been lounging in the tonneau, started and his morose eye brightened. As the motor ran toward her, she looked up, saw who it was, and in the moment of passing, inclined her head in a grave salutation. Chapman leaned forward and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Just stop for a minute, Otto, I want to speak to Miss Maitland." She did not see that the car had stopped or hear the footstep on the grass behind her. Chapman’s voice was low: "Hullo, Esther. Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m going." She wheeled, evidently startled, her face disturbed and unsmiling. "Oh! Do you mean _really_ going?" "Yes. Parting of the ways—all that sort of thing." He eyed her with a curious, watching interest and she returned the look, her own uneasily intent. "Why do you stop to tell me that," was what she said. "Everybody knew it was coming." He shrugged and then smiled, a smile full of meaning: "I thought you’d like to hear it—from _me_, first hand. I’ll be a free man in a year." She stood for a moment looking at the ground, then lifting the parasol over her head, said: "If you’re going to catch the three forty-five you’d better hurry." His smile deepened, showed a roguish malice, and as he turned from her, raising his hat, he murmured just loud enough for her to hear: "Thanks for reminding me. I wouldn’t miss that train for a farm—I’m devilish keen to get to the city." He ran back to the waiting motor and the girl resumed her walk, her step even slower than before, her face down-drooped in frowning reverie.