Fred too was remarkable on these points, but not so remarkable as his sisters; and he did not talk so much. He walked when he could by Effie’s side, and made little remarks to her, which Effie accounted for by the conviction that he was very polite, and thought it right to show her those regards which were due to a young lady. She lent but a dull ear to what he said, and gave her chief attention to Phyllis and Doris, whose talk was more wonderful than anything else that Effie knew. “It is curious,” Miss Phyllis said, “that there never are two picturesque banks to a river. Nature provides herself a theatre, don’t you know. Here are we in the auditorium.” “Only there is nothing to hear,” said Doris, “except the birds--well, that’s something. But music over there would have a fine effect. It would be rather nice to try it, if it ever was warm enough here for an open air party. You could have the orchestra hidden: the strings there, the wind instruments here, don’t you see, violas in the foreground, and the big ’cello booming out of that juniper.” “By Jove!” cried Fred from where he strolled behind with Effie, “how astounded the blackbirds would be.” “It would be interesting to know what they thought. Now, what do you suppose they would do? Stop and listen? or else be struck by the force of the circumstances and set up an opposition?” “Burst their little throats against the strings.” “Or be deafened with your vulgar trombones. Fancy a brass band on the side of the wan water!” “It would be very nice, though,” said Doris. “I said nothing about trombones. It would be quite eighteenth century. And here on the lawn we could sit and drink syllabubs. What are syllabubs? Probably most people would prefer tea. Effie, what do you think? you never say a word. Shall we have a garden party, and music over there under the cliff?” Effie had walked on softly, taking in everything with a mingled sense of admiration and ridicule. She was quite apart, a spectator, listening to the artificial talk about nothing at all, the conversation made up with a distinct idea of being brilliant and interesting, which yet was natural enough to these young people, themselves artificial, who made up their talk as they made up their life, out of nothing. Effie laughed within herself with involuntary criticism, yet was half impressed at the same time, feeling that it was like something out of a book. “Oh, me?” she said in surprise at being consulted. “I have not any opinion, indeed. I never thought of it at all.” “Then think now, and let us hear; for you should know best how the people here would like it.” “Don’t you see, Dor, that she thinks us very silly, and would not talk such nonsense as we are talking for the world? There is no sense in it, and Effie is full of sense.” “Miss Ogilvie has both sense and sympathy,” said Fred. This discussion over her alarmed Effie. She grew red and pale; half affronted, half pleased, wholly shy and uncomfortable.