"How beautiful it all is, after all," he said,
turning to his entertainer. "In Italy 'tis the background the
painter dwells upon; in England, we look rather at the middle
distance."
Mrs. Dewsbury darted round her the restless eye of a hostess, to
see upon whom she could socially bestow him. "Oh, come this way,"
she said, sweeping across the lawn towards a girl in a blue dress
at the opposite corner. "You must know our new-comer. I want to
introduce you to Miss Barton, from Cambridge. She's SUCH a nice
girl too,--the Dean of Dunwich's daughter."
Alan Merrick drew back with a vague gesture of distaste. "Oh,
thank you," he replied; "but, do you know, I don't think I like
deans, Mrs. Dewsbury." Mrs. Dewsbury's smile was recondite and
diplomatic. "Then you'll exactly suit one another," she answered
with gay wisdom. "For, to tell you the truth, I don't think SHE
does either."
The young man allowed himself to be led with a passive protest in
the direction where Mrs. Dewsbury so impulsively hurried him. He
heard that cultivated voice murmuring in the usual inaudible tone
of introduction, "Miss Barton, Mr.
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