sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking
woman of about forty, with a deep voice,
almost manly in its stentorian tones, and
had a large sensible square body, with feet
to match these last encased in good thick
boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was
couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep
even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be
careful."
I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to
make myself useful," I responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't
later."
"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.
"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the
house."
"Come on then, you've done enough
gardening for to-day. 'The labourer is
worthy of his hire', you know. Come and
be refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her
gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree
with you."
She led the way round the house to where
tea was spread under the shade of a large
sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket
chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall
never forget my first sight of Mary
Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined
against the bright light; the vivid sense of
slumbering fire that seemed to find
expression only in those wonderful tawny
eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different
from any other woman's that I have ever
known; the intense power of stillness she
possessed, which nevertheless conveyed
the impression of a wild untamed spirit in
an exquisitely civilised body all these
things are burnt into my memory. I shall
never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of
pleasant welcome in a low clear voice,
and I sank into a basket chair feeling
distinctly glad that I had accepted John's
invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some
tea, and her few quiet remarks
heightened my first impression of her as
a thoroughly fascinating woman. An
appreciative
listener
is
always
stimulating, and I described, in a
humorous manner, certain incidents of
my Convalescent Home, in a way which,
I flatter myself, greatly amused my
hostess. John, of course, good fellow
though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered
voice floated through the open French
window near at hand: