It had been striking him as curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little drawing-room which he had only twice entered.

Her beauty must have a sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her justice; the essence of her was--ah I what ?...

The noise of hoofs called him back to the other window.

Holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed 'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to her.

She had been rather silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her future, as they all did--youngsters! Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up his brush.
But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye--besides, the light was going.