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Doris Foster was a bright, merry girl of seventeen, a perfect picture of ruddy health, her cheeks untouched by any artificial beautifier. Nature was her lady’s-maid, and Doris Foster would not have changed her for the most skilful of tire-women. It was a difficult matter to keep Doris Foster indoors, no matter how bad the weather might be. She revelled in sunshine, but she loved the keen, sharp, frosty air of winter, and the sound of the frozen snow crunching beneath her tiny feet. She knew the names of the wild-flowers, and was well acquainted with their haunts, and also their habits. She was not a clever girl, but she was thoroughly domesticated, a far more desirable accomplishment. Her father and brother were her best friends, and she made but few new acquaintances. Doris Foster was a true-born English girl, not a forced artificial production such as may be encountered by the score in the Row, or the fashionable thoroughfares of the West End. She had not learned to talk slang, and to consider it correct to endeavour to make people think, ‘What a pity she is not a man!’