Presently, he heard indistinctly, somewhere in the other end of the garden, a low murmuring voice.  As it came nearer, the man’s smile grew more pronounced It was a wonderfully attractive voice, clear and full in its pure-toned sweetness.  The unseen speaker was talking to the novelist’s dog.  The smile on the man’s face was still more pronounced, as he whispered to himself, “The rascal!  So this is what he has been up to!” Rising quietly to his knees, he peered through the flower-laden bushes.

A young woman of rare and exquisite beauty was moving about the garden—­bending over the roses, and talking in low tones to Czar, who—­to his hidden master—­appeared to appreciate fully the favor of his gentle companion’s intimacy.  The novelist—­old in the study of character and trained by his long years of observation and experience in the world of artificiality—­was fascinated by the loveliness of the scene.

Dressed simply, in some soft clinging material of white, with a modestly low-cut square at the throat, and sleeves that ended in filmy lace just below the elbow—­her lithe, softly rounded form, as she moved here and there, had all the charm of girlish grace with the fuller beauty of ripening womanhood.  As she bent over the roses, or stooped to caress the dog, in gentle comradeship, her step, her poise, her every motion, was instinct with that strength and health that is seldom seen among those who wear the shackles of a too conventionalized society.  Her face,—­warmly tinted by the golden out-of-doors, firm fleshed and clear,—­in its unconscious naturalness and in its winsome purity was like the flowers she stooped to kiss.

As he watched, the man noticed—­with a smile of understanding—­that she kept rather to the side of the garden toward the house; where the artist, at his easel by the big, north light, could not see her through the small window in the end of the room; and where, hidden by the tall hedge, she would not be noticed from Yee Kee’s kitchen.  Often, too, she paused to listen, as if for any chance approaching step—­appearing, to the fancy of the man, as some creature from another world—­poised lightly, ready to vanish if any rude observer came too near.  Soon,—­after a cautious, hesitating, listening look about,—­she slipped, swift footed as a fawn, across the garden, and—­followed by the dog—­disappeared into the latticed rose-covered arbor against the southern wall.

With a chuckle to himself, Conrad Lagrange crept quietly along the hedge to the door of her retreat.

When she saw him there, she gave a little cry and started as though to escape.  But the novelist, smiling barred her way; while Czar, joyfully greeting his master, turned from the man to the girl and back to the man again, as if, by dividing his attention equally between the two, he was bent upon assuring each that the other was a friend of the right sort.  There was no mistaking the facts that the dog was introducing them, and that he was as proud of his new acquaintance as he was pleased to present his older and more intimate companion.