Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies — an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little — not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.

“Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”

“It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading.”

“But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo.”