Riding slowly down the hill, watching the vista gradually unfold to reveal a wandering stream, a goosegirl herding her flock across an emerald meadow, and the old tavern standing in thatched and whitewashed serenity amid its oaks, he was not surprised to see an artist at work. An elderly man, seated at his easel, absorbed in his task. Mathieson was as absorbed in the goosegirl. Even from this distance it was apparent that she had a comely figure. He grinned, and whistled the command that urged the well-trained stallion into an immediate stretching gallop. They reached the meadow with a flurry of air and a thunder of hooves, and Mathieson dismounted to bow to the pretty creature. The geese scattered. The girl was frightened, wherefore it was only common kindness to soothe her. Besides, she was even prettier than he had hoped, with that special prettiness that comes from youth and fresh-scrubbed cheeks innocent of paints and powders. He questioned her cautiously about the MacTavish coach.
