But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown and white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty--blatantly empty.

There was a shade of disappointment in Constance's glance.

One naturally does not like to waste one's best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.
Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree.

She crossed over and picked it up--a paper-covered French novel; the title was _Bijou_, the author was Gyp.

She turned to the first page.