The young man drew in deep draughts of it; he threw back his head, and, opening his mouth, revelled in the joy of feeling it steal softly down his throat and permeate his lungs.  He was thus engaged when the sound of a voice brought him sharply back to earth.

In the open doorway of the house, an amused expression in her violet eyes, stood a girl—­so wondrously pretty, that at the sight of her Shiel was again overcome, and could only gaze in helpless admiration.

“Do you want to see my father?” she inquired.  “He is getting ready to go out, but I daresay he will see you first.”

“I—­I am sure he will,” the young man replied, “I’m Shiel Davenport.  I’ve come to tell him my uncle died at four o’clock this morning.”

“Oh, dear!” the girl exclaimed, “I am so sorry—­sorry for you, and for my father.  I’m sure he will be terribly upset.  I’m Gladys Martin, perhaps you’ve heard of me—­I knew your uncle.”

“Often,” Shiel said, “And I think my uncle’s description of you an excellent one.”

“His description of me!”

“Yes! he always spoke of you as the Queen of Flowers, and said you had a mania for all things beautiful, which was not surprising, seeing how beautiful you were yourself.”

“That was very nice of him,” Gladys said, looking amused again.  “Won’t you come in?  If you will wait here”—­she led him to the drawing-room—­“I’ll tell my father.”

She disappeared, and Shiel heard her run lightly up the stairs.

“By Jove,” he said to himself, “she’s the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.  From being so much among flowers, she has become one herself.  Violets, roses, and heliotrope have all had a share in her creation!  What eyes, what a mouth! what teeth! what hands!  Surely I have found here, not only the perfection of all things beautiful, but the perfection of all things natural, the perfection of natural grace in contradistinction from artificial grace.  Moreover, she is a romanticist.  There is an expression of romance, of unworldliness, in those deep-set eyes of hers, that sinks into my heart of hearts.  ‘Romance’ and ‘womanliness,’ and the two terms appear to me to be convertible, are her distinguishing features.  She is an artist, an idealist, and, over and above all—­a woman!  Hang it!  I’m in love with her!”

More he could not evolve, for his meditations were abruptly cut short by the entrance of a servant, who ushered him, straightway, into the presence of John Martin.

The latter, though visibly affected by the news of his friend’s death, was a man of the world, and, consequently, came to business at once.  Much had to be discussed—­arrangements for the funeral, the examination of correspondence relative to the firm, and plans for the immediate future.

“You don’t know how my uncle’s affairs stand, I suppose?” Shiel asked somewhat nervously.

“Yes,” John Martin said, “I do.  May I ask if you have any private means at all—­or are you solely dependent on what you earn?  By the way, what is your calling?”