"Then _nothing_!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little familiar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the urn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly. "Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?" "Dreams were delightful; but to dream _alone_----" "Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her husband to speak--to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had been rather pointedly addressed. So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doing anything on a day so sultry. Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are all tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, worn out from _ennui_, they insert themselves under each arched instep, threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made use of. "Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobody pays any attention to Dicky Browne. He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with no features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. Age unknown. "Well! That's _one_ way of putting it," says Miss Kavanagh, with a little tilt of her pretty chin. "Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is--Dicky Browne." "Oh, I _like_ that!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give you plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beat you in a canter." "Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things as sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble. "There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Baltimore, drawing up a garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head is safe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!" "Ah, _granite_! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second. It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore laughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair a quarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would have been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to one side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his privileges upon her domain. "People should not _crush_ people. And _why_ do you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within the serene eyes she once more raises to his.