“The harder she is the more I am interested in making her acquaintance,” replied Cuthbert. “I don’t care a jot about commonplace women, were they as lovely as Aphrodite. I go to see this soured widow as eagerly as Romeo scaled Juliet’s balcony. Did his lordship ever tell you what it was that soured the creature, by the way? That kind of hardness is generally in somewise the result of circumstance, even where there is the adamantine quality in the original character.” “I never heard any details about the lady’s past life; only that her husband was in the merchant navy, upon the India and China line—that he died suddenly and left her penniless—that she was a lady by birth and education, and had married somewhat beneath her. I have often wondered how my cousin, as a barrister, came to be intimate with a captain in the merchant service.” They were at the gates of the Park by this time, and close to the rustic steps which led up to Mrs. Porter’s garden. It was one of those tropical days which often occur towards the end of August, and the clusters of cactus dahlias in the old-fashioned border, and the tall hollyhocks in the background, made patches of dazzling colour in the bright white light, against which the cool grays of the stone cottage offered repose to the eye. One side of the cottage was starred with passion-flowers, and on the other the great waxen chalices of the magnolia showed creamy white against the scarlet of the trumpet ash. It was the season at which Mrs. Porter’s hermitage put on its gayest aspect, the crowning feast of bloom and colour before the chilling breath of autumn brought rusty reds and pallid grays into the picture. The two young men heard voices as they approached the steps, and on looking upward, Theodore saw the curate and his wife standing on the little grass-plot with Mrs. Porter. There could hardly be a better opportunity for approaching her, as she was caught in the act of receiving visitors, and could not deny herself.