Mr. Brumley found their subsequent conversation the fullest realization¹ of his extremest hopes. Behind his amiable² speeches, which soon grew altogether easy and confident again, a hundred imps³ of vanity were patting his back for the intuition, the swift decision that had abandoned his walk so promptly⁴. In some extraordinary way the incident of the board became impossible; it hadn't happened, he felt, or it had happened differently. Anyhow there was no time to think that over now. He guided the lady to the two little greenhouses, made her note the opening glow of the great autumnal border and brought her to the rock garden. She stooped and loved and almost kissed the soft healthy cushions of pampered⁵ saxifrage: she appreciated the cleverness of the moss-bed—where there were droseras; she knelt to the gentians; she had a kindly⁶ word for that bank-holiday corner where London Pride still belatedly rejoiced; she cried out at the delicate Iceland poppies that thrust up between the stones of the rough pavement; and so in the most amiable accord they came to the raised seat in the heart of it all, and sat down and took in the whole effect of the place, and backing of woods, the lush borders, the neat lawn, the still neater orchard⁷, the pergola, the nearer delicacies⁸ among the stones, and the gable, the shining white rough-cast of the walls, the casement⁹ windows, the projecting upper story, the carefully sought-out old tiles of the roof. And everything bathed in that caressing¹⁰ sunshine which does not

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