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In his fancies--although there was nothing in his outward demeanour towards the world to indicate that he had any--Matresser had always pictured Elisabeth in the clinging robes which a fashionable portrait painter had, that season, immortalised, a beautiful lady of the salon depending for her charm upon her exquisite fragility rather than her more Diana-like qualities. The sight of her swinging down one of the rides of Otley Wood in her heather-coloured tweeds, her face uplifted, as though to catch a glimpse of the sky between the overhanging trees, was a revelation to him. She walked with the loose and easy gait of some wild creature of the woods, except that in her movements she showed no signs of suspicion or fear--the natural habitude of all free animals. Her slight start of surprise as she recognised Matresser and his companion Humphreys, was in itself a beautiful gesture. Her eyes, the colour of the autumn leaves on which she trod, flashed out a welcome.
"Do I go to prison for this?" she asked. "I read that very severe notice and I almost turned back."