Miss Carrington hastened upstairs and Minerva went out of the swinging door at the rear, outraged, but muttering: “It’s as cold now as it can be; I suppose another half-hour won’t matter.” Within fifteen minutes Miss Carrington was sitting back against the cushions of her car, seeing neither the lovely spring day nor Daniel Noble’s respectable mulberry-coloured back, so occupied was she with her plan. There were several ways to reach the new park, and on the way thither Miss Carrington did not overtake the carriage for which she was watching. But as her car slowly wound around the pretty though unconvincing mazes of the carefully planned little park, she saw the carriage standing empty, except of a youth, evidently garnered on the spot, who was holding the horses. Three adult figures and a child were standing on the small bridge over the toy stream. It was so ludicrously like the old willow-ware pattern that Miss Carrington smiled at the resemblance, though she was sharply intent upon getting a first impression of the young woman of the group. She saw that the girl was not above medium height, that she was graceful, well-dressed, refined in bearing and gesture. As she raised her bent head and looked straight at the car, Miss Carrington saw a face so sweet, so full of charm that her heart sank. “Mercy upon us, she’s one of those creatures whose really great prettiness is not equal to their intense femininity; her eyes are beautiful. She’s a permeating creature, and looks as affectionate as good--but not one bit stupid! Oh, poor Kit. That’s a rare type, hard to supplant. I’ve got to see to it that she doesn’t get as far as that,” thought this wise woman. In the meantime, Miss Carrington was saluting Kit, who recognized her with anything but delight on his tell-tale face, she bade Noble drive on, but slowly. She kept in sight of the movements of the group on the bridge, and timed her return to it by another spur of the road just as the Latham party left it. “My dear Mr. Latham!” Miss Carrington said, leaning over the side of her car to take the poet’s hand. “I am truly glad to meet you here. I’ve been wishing that I might ask you to come to me, but one fears to be intrusive. I know that the world is pursuing you, as you are retreating from it. I have a find in the book way that I should like to show you.” “Thank you, Miss Carrington,” said Richard. “You are kind. And you are not to be reckoned one of the world which you imagine is hunting me down; you are my neighbour. I shall be grateful to be allowed to come to see the book, and you.” He spoke with lovable deference, pitying her as a lonely old woman. Miss Carrington could not hide from his blind eyes and keen intuition that this was what she was.