“No,” I replied, “he never will at this rate. Nobody will ever be good enough for him.” “I’m sure I don’t know what you can find in any of them to take you there so much,” said my mother. “Don’t be so mean, Mater,” I answered, nettled. “You know I like them.” “I know you like _her_” said my mother sarcastically. “As for him—he’s an unlicked cub. What can you expect when his mother has spoiled him as she has. But I wonder you are so interested in licking him.” My mother sniffed contemptuously. “He is rather good looking,” said Lettie with a smile. _“You_ could make a man of him, I am sure,” I said, bowing satirically to her. _“I_ am not interested,” she replied, also satirical. Then she tossed her head, and all the fine hairs that were free from bonds made a mist of yellow light in the sun. “What frock shall I wear Mater?” she asked. “Nay, don’t ask me,” replied her mother. “I think I’ll wear the heliotrope—though this sun will fade it,” she said pensively. She was tall, nearly six feet in height, but slenderly formed. Her hair was yellow, tending towards a dun brown. She had beautiful eyes and brows, but not a nice nose. Her hands were very beautiful. “Where are you going?” I asked. She did not answer me. “To Tempest’s!” I said. She did not reply. “Well I don’t know what you can see in _him_,” I continued. “Indeed!” said she. “He’s as good as most folk——” then we both began to laugh. “Not,” she continued blushing, “that I think anything about him. I’m merely going for a game of tennis. Are you coming?” “What shall you say if I agree?” I asked. “Oh!” she tossed her head. “We shall all be very pleased I’m sure.” “Ooray!” said I with fine irony. She laughed at me, blushed, and ran upstairs. Half an hour afterwards she popped her head in the study to bid me good-bye, wishing to see if I appreciated her. She was so charming in her fresh linen frock and flowered hat, that I could not but be proud of her. She expected me to follow her to the window, for from between the great purple rhododendrons she waved me a lace mitten, then glinted on like a flower moving brightly through the green hazels. Her path lay through the wood in the opposite direction from Strelley Mill, down the red drive across the tree-scattered space to the highroad. This road ran along the end of our lakelet, Nethermere, for about a quarter of a mile. Nethermere is the lowest in a chain of three ponds. The other two are the upper and lower mill ponds at Strelley: this is the largest and most charming piece of water, a mile long and about a quarter of a mile in width. Our wood runs down to the water’s edge. On the opposite side, on a hill beyond the farthest corner of the lake, stands Highclose. It looks across the water at us in Woodside with one eye as it were, while our cottage casts a sidelong glance back again at the proud house, and peeps coyly through the trees.