But a short walk brought us out into a great clearing where was a charming cottage and most pleasant grounds and gardens. There were terraces, flower beds, tennis court, bowling green and a field showing a huge target, set up for archery practice. It fascinated me, and I no longer wondered that Miss Remsen loved her island home. The house itself, though called a cottage, was a good-sized affair, of two and a half stories, with verandahs and balconies, and a hospitable atmosphere seemed to pervade the porches, furnished with wicker chairs and chintz cushions. Yet the place was so still, so uninhabited looking that I shuddered involuntarily. I became conscious of a sinister effect, an undercurrent of something eerie and strange. I glanced off at the trees and shrubbery. It was easily seen that the Island, of two or three acres, I thought, was bright and cheerful only immediately around the house. Surrounding the clearing for that, the trees closed in, and the result was like an enormous, lofty wall of impenetrable black woods. I quickly came back to the house, and as we went up the steps, Alma Remsen came out on the porch. I shall never forget how she looked then. For the first time I saw her close by without a hat. Her hair, of golden brown, but bright gold in the sunlight, was in soft short ringlets like a baby’s curls. I know a lot, having sisters, about marcel and permanent, about water waves and finger curls, but this hair, I recognized, had that unusual attribute, longed for by all women: it was naturally curly. The tendrils clustered at the nape of her neck and broke into soft, thick curls at the top of her head. I had never seen such fascinating hair, and dimly wondered what it was like before she had it cut short. She wore a sort of sports suit of white silk with bands of green. She glanced down at this apologetically. “I ought to be in black,” she said, “or, at least, all white. But I am, when I go over to the mainland. Here at home, it doesn’t seem to matter. Does it?” She looked up at me appealingly, though with no trace of coyness. “Of course not,” I assured her. “Our affection is not made or marred by the colour of a garment.” This sounded a bit stilted, even to me, but Kee had told me not to make a fool of myself and I was trying hard to obey. “Sit down,” she said, hospitably, but though calm, she was far from being at ease. “We’re only going to stay a minute,” Kee said. “We must get home to luncheon. It’s late now, and my wife will be furious. Miss Remsen, I think I’ll speak right out and not beat about the bush.” She turned rather white, but sat listening, her hands clasped in her lap and her little white-shod foot tapping nervously on the porch floor.