"Heavens, what weather!" he exclaimed fervently. "The day is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The whole world sings romance. And yet you — insensible monster!—you can sit there torpidly" But abruptly he fell silent. His attention had been caught by something below, in the garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the window; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching. Suddenly, facing half-way round, "By my bauble, Nunky," he called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised exultancy, she's got red hair!"
The younger man looked up with vague eyes. "Who? What?" he asked languidly.
Come here, come here," his friend urged, beckoning him. "There," he indicated, when the pale man had joined him, "below there — to the right — picking roses. She's got red hair. She's sent by Providence."
A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the alleys of the garden; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned towards her observers; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over her head, and her hair—soft-brown, fawn-colour, in its shadows—where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red.
The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, "Who the devil is she?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied the other. "One of the Queen's women, probably. But whoever she is, she's got red hair."
The younger man frowned more fiercely still. "What is she doing in the King's private garden? This is a pretty state of things." He stamped his foot angrily. "Go down and turn her out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may not occur again."
