A voice said: “What a storm! May I share your shelter?” His jacket was soaked and when he took off his hat a stream of water fell from it.

I noticed at once how pleasant he was to look at. As he looked up at the sky and laughed, I saw strong-looking white teeth but his most startling feature was his eyes because they were a dark blue—and his brows and short thick lashes were as black as his hair. But it was not the contrast of blue and black which was arresting, it was something in his expression. I could not analyze it in a few moments but I was definitely aware of it. For the rest he was tall and rather lean.

“It seems as though I came just in time.” His eyes were on me and I flinched a little under his gaze, which had the effect of making me wonder whether my hair was tousled and reminding me that the morning dress of sprigged cotton which I was wearing was not my most becoming.

“May I come under the parapet?”

“You will get very wet if you don’t.”

He came and stood beside me. I withdrew as far as I could, for he disturbed me.

“Were you taking a walk too?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I often do. I love the forest. It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s also very wet at the moment. Do you often walk here… alone?”

“I like to be alone.”

“But a young lady on her own! Might she not meet with… dangers?”

“I had never thought of that.”

His blue eyes seemed to be alight with laughter. “Then you should without delay.”

“Should I?”

“How can you know what you will meet here?”

“I am not far from the house.”

“Your home, you mean?”

“Yes, my home. In fact when the storm started I debated whether to make a dash for it or come to this place.”

“I’m still surprised that you are allowed to roam here alone.”

“Oh, I am well able to take care of myself.”

I moved a step or two away from him.

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment. So your home is near here?”

“Yes… it’s Roland’s Croft.”

He nodded.

“You know it?”

“Owned by an eccentric old gentleman. Is that right?”

“Mr. Sylvester Milner is not eccentric, nor is he old. He is a very interesting man.”

“But of course. You are a relative of his?”

“I work for him. My mother is the housekeeper there.”

“I see.”

“Do you think the storm is abating?”

“Perhaps, but it would be a mistake to leave this shelter yet. Storms have a habit of returning. One should make absolutely sure that they really are over before venturing out into them.”

“And you live in this neighborhood?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I am taking a short holiday here. I was just out walking when the storm arose. I saw you through the trees making off with such resolution that I was certain you were going to a shelter. So I followed.” His eyes crinkled with a kind of secret amusement. “I wonder what this place was,” he went on. “Look at these walls. They must be hundreds of years old.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“What was here, do you think? Some sort of dwelling?”

“I think so. I believe it could have been here for nine hundred years.”

“You could well be right.”

“Perhaps it was some house which was partially razed to the ground to make way for forest that kings might hunt to their pleasure. Can’t you imagine it? The King gives the order: lands to be made forest land and the devil take anyone whose home is on it. No wonder those kings were hated. You can feel the hatred sometimes in this forest.”

I stopped. Why was I talking to him in this way? I could see that he was amused. The manner in which he looked at me showed it.

“I can see that as well as being a young lady bold enough to roam the forest alone you are a highly imaginative one. Now I think that that is a very interesting combination—boldness and imagination. That should take you far.”

“What do you mean, take me far?”

He leaned towards me slightly. “As far as you want to go. I can see too that you are very determined.”

“Are you a fortune teller?”

Again he laughed. “At moments,” he said, “I have clairvoyant powers. Shall I tell you something? I’m a descendant of Merlin, the magician. Can you sense his presence in the forest?”

“I can’t and he could not have been here—had he existed at all. The forest was made by the Norman kings long after Merlin died.”

“Oh, Merlin fluttered from century to century. He had no sense of time.”

“I can see you are amused. I’m sorry if I seemed foolish.”

“Far from it. Foolish is the last word I would apply to you and if I am amused it is in the nicest possible way. One of the greatest pleasures of life is to be amused.”

“I love this forest,” I said. “I’ve read a great deal about it. I suppose that’s what makes me imagine things.” And I thought what an extraordinary conversation to be holding with a stranger. I said quickly: “The sky is a little lighter. The storm is beginning to fade away.”

“I hope not. It is so much more interesting sheltering from the storm than walking through the forest alone.”

“I am sure it is abating.” I stepped out from the parapet. He took my arm and drew me back.

I was very much aware of him.

“It’s unsafe to venture yet,” he said.

“I’ve such a little distance to go.”

“Stay and make sure. Besides, we don’t want to cut short this absorbing conversation. You’re interested in the past, are you?”

“I am.”

“That’s wise. The past is such an excellent warning to the present and future. And you feel that there is something significant about this ruin?”

“Any ruin interests me. It must at some time have been someone’s home. People must have lived within its walls. I can’t help wondering about them, how they lived, loved, suffered, rejoiced…”

He watched me closely. “You’re right,” he said. “There is something here. I sense it too. This is a historic spot. One day we shall look back and say, ‘Ah, that was the place where we sheltered from the storm,’”

He put out a hand as though to grasp mine and drawing back I said: “Look. It is lighter. I’m going to chance it now. Goodbye.”

I left him standing there and ran out into the forest.

The rain was teeming down, the wet foliage wrapped itself round me as my feet squelched through the sodden ground. I had to get away though. I was uncertain of what he would do. There was something about him—some vitality which I felt would submerge me if I stayed. He had been laughing at me, I was well aware of that, and I was not sure of him. I was very excited though. I had half wanted to stay and had been half eager to get away.

What an extraordinary encounter and yet it had merely been two people sheltering from the rain.

When I arrived at the house my mother was in the hall.

“Good gracious, Jane,” she said, “wherever have you been?” She came to me and felt my dress. “You’re soaked to the skin.”

“I was caught in the storm.”

“How breathless you are! Come along upstairs. You must get those things off and Amy shall bring hot water. You must have a hot bath at once and put on dry things.”

She poured the hot water into the hip bath in her bedroom and I was immersed in it. She put a little mustard in—her own special remedy—and then made me dry myself and put on the clothes she had got out for me.

When I was dressed I was aware of the bustle in the servants’ quarters and I could not resist going down.

Mrs. Couch was puffing a kind of contentment. Jess and Amy were pink in the cheeks.

“My goodness me,” said Mrs. Couch, “if this is not a day and a half. First my buns catch in the oven and then Mr. Joliffe comes.”

Sprawling on a chair his legs slightly apart, his heels touching the floor, was the man I had met in the forest.

He smiled at me in a way with which I was to become familiar—half teasing, half tender.

“We’re old friends,” he commented.

There was silence in the kitchen. Then I said as coolly as I could, addressing myself to Mrs. Couch who was gaping at me: “We sheltered from the rain… in the forest.”

“Did you now,” said Mrs. Couch looking from one of us to the other.

“For about ten minutes,” I added.

“It was long enough for us to become friends,” he replied, still giving me that smile which touched me in a way I could not then understand.

“Mr. Joliffe is quick to make friends,” said Mrs. Couch.

“It saves so much time in life,” he retorted.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were Mr. Milner’s nephew?”

“I thought I would give you a big surprise. But you might have guessed, you know.”

“You said you were a visitor.”

“So I am.”

“Taking a walk in the forest.”

“So I was, on my way to my uncle’s house. Jess, ask Jeffers to send to the station for my bag.”

“Why yes, Mr. Joliffe,” said Jess blushing.

I felt disconcerted. They were all behaving as though he were some sort of prince. It made me a little impatient.

Mrs. Couch was saying fondly: “Just like you, Mr. Joliffe, to come without a word! We drank the last of the sloe gin last week. Now if I’d have known I’d have kept some back. I know how partial you are to my sloe gin.”

“Nowhere in the world is there sloe gin to compare with that of my dear Mrs. Couch.”

She wriggled in her rocking chair and said: “Go on with you. But I’ll see there’s black-currant tart for your dinner.”

I said I had work to do and went out. I felt his eyes following me as I went.


* * *

The house changed because he was in it. I was caught up in the excitement.

Everything was different now. All the solemnity which the presence of Mr. Sylvester Milner brought with it had disappeared. Instead of being a house of certain secrets, somewhat mysterious and now and then a trifle sinister, it was a gay house. He had a habit of whistling rather tunefully. He could imitate the songs of birds and he could produce some of the gayer Sullivan tunes from the Savoy operas with great verve. There was something joyous about him. He appeared to love life and everyone about him was caught up in his enthusiasm for it. He never lost an opportunity of charming everyone and I soon came to the conclusion that he was making a special effort as far as I was concerned.

When I rode out he was beside me; if I went for a walk in the forest I would not have gone far without hearing his whistle behind me. We talked a great deal about ourselves; I told him of my father and his untimely death in the mountains and he told me of his parents’ accident and how he had been brought up between his uncles Sylvester and Redmond.

“In an atmosphere rather like that of Roland’s Croft,” he explained. “Everything seems to be submerged beneath Chinese Art. Do you feel that here?”

“It is Mr. Milner’s business, of course.”

“But everywhere you go there is the influence of China. The vases on the stairs; bits and pieces here and there, and that fellow of my uncle’s shuffling round. Do you feel it?”

“Yes. It fascinates me.”

“That’s because you haven’t been brought up with it. Mind you, I’m in it too… up to my neck.”

“You mean in the business?”

“Yes. Well, why not? I learned how to recognize a Ming vase at my uncle’s knees, you might say. I’m an independent fellow, though. Miss Lindsay. When my uncle Sylvester sent me out to China I got the feeling that I wanted to use my skill, my powers of detection, for myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes. You are yet another branch of the same business.”

“You put it succinctly. We are all in the same lake as it were but we are all pulling our own craft.”

He talked a great deal about Hong Kong—a place which evidently fascinated him. Mr. Sylvester Milner had talked to me too, but differently. With Mr. Sylvester I heard of the various dynasties, how they flourished and passed away. Joliffe made me see a different scene. The green hills running down to sandy beaches on Hong Kong Island; the ladder streets up which people climbed the steep inclines; the letter writers who translated for those who could not read, and wrote to their dictation; the Chinese fortune tellers in the streets, shaking the containers which held the sticks which would be selected and laid out that they might foretell the future; the sampans which made up the floating villages. He talked in a manner which fascinated me and although I had been very interested in what Mr. Sylvester had taught me, this was colorful and alive and it imbued me with a desire to see it for myself.