The gorse was yellow on the commons; and in the damp woody ways through which Chloe passed, a few primroses--frail, unseasonable blooms--pushed their pale heads through the moss.

The scent of the beech-leaves under foot; the buffeting of a westerly wind; the pleasant yielding of her light frame to the movement of the horse; the glimpses of plain that every here and there showed themselves through the trees that girdled the high ground or edge along which she rode; the white steam-wreath of a train passing, far away, through strata of blue or pearly mist; an old windmill black in the middle distance; villages, sheltering among their hedges and uplands: a sky, of shadow below widely brooding over earth, and of a radiant blue flecked with white cloud above:--all the English familiar scene, awoke in Chloe Fairmile a familiar sensuous joy.

Life was so good--every minute, every ounce of it!--from the Duchess's _chef_ to these ethereal splendours of autumn--from the warm bath, the luxurious bed, and breakfast, she had but lately enjoyed, to these artistic memories that ran through her brain, as she glanced from side to side, reminded now of Turner, now of DeWint, revelling in the complexity of her own being.

Her conscience gave her no trouble; it had never been more friendly.

Her husband and she had come to an understanding; they were in truth more than quits.