"Shall we go down to the sheep first ?" "Anywhere you like," he assented, brightly.

"Remember, I'm your pupil." She glanced at him and smiled.
"A very big pupil." "But a very humble one," he said.

"I'm afraid you'll add, 'a very stupid one,' before long." As they rode down hill, Stafford stole a look at her unobserved.

Ever since he had left her yesterday her face had haunted him, even while Maude Falconer, in all her war paint and sparkling with jewels, had been singing, even in the silent watches of the night, when--strange thing for him!--he had awakened from a dream of her; he had recalled the exquisitely lovely face with its grave yet girlish eyes, and he felt now, with a thrill, that she was even more lovely than she had been in his thoughts and his dreams; that the nameless charm which had haunted him was stronger, more subtle, than even his fancy had painted it.

He noticed the touch of colour just below her white slender column of a neck, and wondered why no other woman had ever thought of wearing a crimson tie with her habit.
"What a grand morning," he said.