“This is all rot!” he declared angrily. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve.
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