He kicked the leaves around his feet exultantly, like a boy, and tried to persuade every squirrel he saw to come and taste the mythical peanut he held in his fingers. The squirrels were wary, but a little dog limped up to him wagging a fragmentary tail and whining faintly. He stopped to analyse the whine, and as a result a troublesome burr ceased longer to trouble. The animal followed him the rest of the way to the Wynrod house. The man turned at the gate. "Good-bye, friend," he said gravely. The dog wagged his whole body and barked twice. It was indisputable that he understood. Good found Judith waiting for him in the library. As they shook hands he thought that he had never seen so lovely a creature. She was dressed in a riding costume of hunter green, which toned perfectly with the autumnal warmth of her skin. There was a wine-like sparkle in her eyes and her teeth gleamed in an unaffected smile as she greeted him. Apparently his presence was pleasing to her. But as he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror over the fireplace, he wondered, a little dismally, how that were possible. She was so fresh and sound and glowing, and yet, withal, so dainty, so delicate, so thoroughly feminine: while he ... never, he thought, had he realised quite how awkward and grotesque a thing he was. The mirror was brutally candid. Beside her face, with its colouring of frost-ripened apple, his own stared back, telling its sordid tale of stuffy rooms and gas-light and greasy food and lack of exercise. With its seams and wrinkles it looked like a coat of white paint, yellowed and broken by over-long exposure to the elements. He was suddenly conscious that his suit was very old and ill-fitting, and that his hair needed cutting badly. For the first time in his life he suffered a pang of regret that the configuration of his neck prevented his wearing a collar which fit him. As he looked down at her hand in his, smooth, well-formed, the fingers tapering delicately, yet with a flow of muscle under the integument revealing bridle-strength--for horse or man--he sighed. His own seemed so huge and formless, with its mountainous purple veins, its coarse black hair, like forests, and the spatulate nails--clumsy, broken, yellow where hers were pink ... hastily his hand sought his pocket. "Well," she said, when the silence threatened to become embarrassing, "what's the news from the scene of action?" He drew a bulky envelope from his coat, and tried to forget her physical presence. But to the familiar smell of burning leaves clung a faint scent of jaqueminot. His hand trembled a little as he turned the pages of the documents. "You'll be disappointed," he whispered huskily. "Why?" "It's a poor showing." "Wasn't that to be expected?" "In a way, yes, but...." "Is it as bad as it might be?" "Well, no, but...."