A flaw in that pentagram of a time-table, that pentagram by which the demons of distraction were to be excluded from Mr. Lewisham’s career to Greatness, was the absence of a clause forbidding study out of doors.  It was the day after the trivial window peeping of the last chapter that this gap in the time-table became apparent, a day if possible more gracious and alluring than its predecessor, and at half-past twelve, instead of returning from the school directly to his lodging, Mr. Lewisham escaped through the omission and made his way—­Horace in pocket—­to the park gates and so to the avenue of ancient trees that encircles the broad Whortley domain.  He dismissed a suspicion of his motive with perfect success.  In the avenue—­for the path is but little frequented—­one might expect to read undisturbed.  The open air, the erect attitude, are surely better than sitting in a stuffy, enervating bedroom.  The open air is distinctly healthy, hardy, simple....

The day was breezy, and there was a perpetual rustling, a going and coming in the budding trees.

The network of the beeches was full of golden sunlight, and all the lower branches were shot with horizontal dashes of new-born green.

    “Tu, nisi ventis
    Debes ludibrium, cave.”

was the appropriate matter of Mr. Lewisham’s thoughts, and he was mechanically trying to keep the book open in three places at once, at the text, the notes, and the literal translation, while he turned up the vocabulary for ludibrium, when his attention, wandering dangerously near the top of the page, fell over the edge and escaped with incredible swiftness down the avenue....

A girl, wearing a straw hat adorned with white blossom, was advancing towards him.  Her occupation, too, was literary.  Indeed, she was so busy writing that evidently she did not perceive him.

Unreasonable emotions descended upon Mr. Lewisham—­emotions that are unaccountable on the mere hypothesis of a casual meeting.  Something was whispered; it sounded suspiciously like “It’s her!” He advanced with his fingers in his book, ready to retreat to its pages if she looked up, and watched her over it. Ludibrium passed out of his universe.  She was clearly unaware of his nearness, he thought, intent upon her writing, whatever that might be.  He wondered what it might be.  Her face, foreshortened by her downward regard, seemed infantile.  Her fluttering skirt was short, and showed her shoes and ankles.  He noted her graceful, easy steps.  A figure of health and lightness it was, sunlit, and advancing towards him, something, as he afterwards recalled with a certain astonishment, quite outside the Schema.