A miracle of white daintiness, from the spotless muslin of her gown to the creamy lace which hung from her parasol. So far as toilette went, Lady Delahaye was always an artist. Yet my pulses were unmoved, and my heart unstirred, as she stood under my dark cedar-tree and welcomed me with all the expression which her tone and eyes could command.
"So you see, Sir Hermit," she murmured, "what happens to those who will not go to the mountain? Seriously, I hope you are glad to see me."
"Why not?" I answered calmly. "Will you come inside, or shall we sit here in the shade?"
"Here, by all means," she answered, subsiding gracefully into a wicker chair.
"You will let me order you some tea?"
She checked my movement towards the house.
"For Heaven's sake, no! I have been paying calls all the afte
