The walled garden lay as if stunned under the hot May sunshine. After an indifferent spring, it seemed that nature was eager to make up for lost time and, since the middle of the month, the weather had been dry and unseasonably hot.

The grass was dotted with daisies and, at a distance from the sheltering group of apple and nut trees in the far corner, three or four fairy rings made a pattern of darker green on the lawn's brightness. Herbs and flowers grew abundantly in he beds. Predominant among the lilies, pansies, poppies, sage, lavender and thyme were all the tall stems of rue, its yellow flowers brought early into bloom by the sun and pushing their way vigorously up to the light. Roses climbed in profusion over the southern and westward walls, their bright pink flowers giving a fragrance to the warm still air. Wormwood and yarrow, southernwood and bramble competed for space in the hedge beyond the nut trees; in the shade of the hedge, in its own marked-off space, grew mandrake.

Between the herb beds, narrow paths wound through the grass. On the furthest path stood a young woman. She had just picked a rose and , holding it to her face, her eyes were closed in pleasure as she breathed in the scent.

She was tall, slim and fair, so fair that, in the bright light, her skin appeared white. Her hair too, was almost white; a blonde so pale that it resembled ripe flax. She had thrown back the veil that she ususally wore to shield her face from the sun and now the faintest blush of pink was beginning to colour her cheeks. She was dressed in silk, expensive, heavy silk, imported from france and acquired, at considerable cost, from a merchant in Romney. The silk was the palest pink of an opening bindweed flower and - not in the least by accident - it exactly matched the smooth colour in the girl's smooth skin.

Graceful, rapt, eyes still closed, she was beautiful.

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