Two days later she was introduced to Paul. Manning and he were doing the round of the park, Manning with a gun under his arm, Paul, metaphorically, with a pencil in his hand. In other words, he was realising what a lovely place it was. The wide sweeps of grass, the clumps of trees, the views of the Downs, and the utter quiet of this little Sussex backwater were already exercising their magic upon him. The two of them had come along the northern boundary of the estate and were now skirting the lake. It was a wild overgrown place, with nothing formal about it, a big irregular sheet of water with a tangle of weeds and lilies at one end and a regiment of great elms closing it in. An avenue of limes led from it to the house, an odd avenue that only appeared as an avenue when you came upon its entrance, suddenly, in the middle of grassy park-land. Thus it started nowhere in particular, and, from a distance, had no particular object, since the water itself lay low at the far end of it behind a raised bank. Paul already loved that. You wandered down from the garden and saw, suddenly, the green guarded road of it running away into the park. Intrigued, you entered, and sauntered carelessly up it. Then, at quite a long last, you climbed the slope of the bank and suddenly saw before you this still enchanted refuge where the fish leaped in the gathering dusk and white swans sailed friendlily up in the heat of the sun. Here and there a fallen trunk lay half in and half out of the water. In places there was no coming at the brink for forests of reeds. But, at its deepest corner, a promontory of hazels that was almost an island, thrust out into its serenity. The friends leaped from stone to tussock and tussock to log and landed. A suggestion of a path led them through the few yards of undergrowth. And there, hidden by a screen of green, with the water at her feet, sat Ursula on the flat prow of a punt. She was making a little water-colour, palette in one hand, brush in the other, a little impressionist study of a pine that stood by himself on the bank opposite, his brown roots reaching down into the lake. "Hullo, Ursula," said Manning, "we didn't see you. Let me introduce Paul Kestern. He's going to be a near neighbour, so you've got to know him." The girl looked up but did not move. Paul found himself staring across a tiny strip of water into clear brown eyes, a pale oval face, and a frame of black hair, all set on a tall pillar of white throat and neck. She was wearing a brilliant yellow jumper, without adornment, and a short blue skirt. She was long-limbed, and he realised vaguely that her white bare arms and black stockinged legs were shapely and lissom and good to see. "How do you do," he said properly. "I've seen you before somewhere," she replied. Paul was puzzled. He shot a glance at Manning, but he was fiddling unconcernedly with his gun. Left to his own resources, he continued to be polite.