Miss Greeby had explored the wood before and knew exactly where to find the cottage mentioned by Lady Garvington.  On the verge of the trees she saw the blue smoke of the gypsies’ camp fires, and heard the vague murmur of Romany voices, but, avoiding the vagrants, she took her way through the forest by a winding path.  This ultimately led her to a spacious glade, in the centre of which stood a dozen or more rough monoliths of mossy gray and weather-worn stones, disposed in a circle.  Probably these were all that remained of some Druidical temple, and archaeologists came from far and near to view the weird relics.  And in the middle of the circle stood the cottage:  a thatched dwelling, which might have had to do with a fairy tale, with its whitewashed walls covered with ivy, and its latticed windows, on the ledges of which stood pots of homely flowers.  There was no fence round this rustic dwelling, as the monoliths stood as guardians, and the space between the cottage walls and the gigantic stones was planted thickly with fragrant English flowers.  Snapdragon, sweet-william, marigolds, and scented clove carnations, were all to be found there:  also there was thyme, mint, sage, and other pot-herbs.  And the whole perfumed space was girdled by trees old and young, which stood back from the emerald beauty of untrimmed lawns.  A more ideal spot for a dreamer, or an artist, or a hermit, or for the straying prince of a fairy tale, it would have been quite impossible to find.  Miss Greeby’s vigorous and coarse personality seemed to break in a noisy manner—­although she did not utter a single word—­the enchanted silence of the solitary place.

However, the intruder was too matter-of-fact to trouble about the sequestered liveliness of this unique dwelling.  She strode across the lawns, and passing beyond the monoliths, marched like an invader up the narrow path between the radiant flower-beds.  From the tiny green door she raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an emphatic bang.  Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though the person behind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall, well-built, slim young man made his appearance on the threshold.  He held a palette on the thumb of one hand, and clutched a sheaf of brushes, while another brush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a rather rough welcome.  The look in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly seemed to resent the intrusion, but at the sight of Miss Greeby this irritability changed to a glance of suspicion.  Lambert, from old associations, liked his visitor very well on the whole, but that feminine intuition, which all creative natures possess, warned him that it was wise to keep her at arm’s length.  She had never plainly told her love; but she had assuredly hinted at it more or less by eye and manner and undue hauntings of his footsteps when in London.  He could not truthfully tell himself that he was glad of her unexpected visit.  For quite half a minute they stood staring at one another, and Miss Greeby’s hard cheeks flamed to a poppy red at the sight of the man she loved.