"Aren't you glad I have come?" she says, with the utmost _naïveté_. "I'm awfully glad myself. The children have all gone to the Dugdales', and so I am my own mistress." "And so you came to me," says Clarissa. "Yes, of course." "And now, to make you happy," says Clarissa, meditatively. "Don't take any thought about that. It is already an accomplished fact. I am with _you_, and therefore I am perfectly happy." "Still, you so seldom get a holiday," goes on Clarissa, regretfully, which is a little unfair, as the Redmonds are the easiest-going people in the world, and have a sort of hankering after the giving of holidays and the encouragement of idleness generally. The vicar, indeed, is laden with a suppressed and carefully hidden theory that children should never do anything but laugh and sit in the sun. In his heart of hearts he condemns all Sunday-schools, as making the most blessed day one of toil, and a wearying of the flesh, to the little ones. "Why,--why," said he, once, in an unguarded moment, bitterly repented of afterwards, "forbid them their rest on the Sabbath day?" "What a pity the afternoon is so uncertain!" says Clarissa. "We might have gone for a nice long drive." She goes over to the window, and gazes disconsolately at the huge shining drops that fling themselves heavily against the panes, and on the leaves and flowers outside; while "The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again." "I cannot feel anything to be a pity to-day," says Georgie. "I can feel only a sense of freedom. Clarissa, let us play a game of battledore and shuttlecock. I used to beat you at Brussels; try if you can beat me now." Into the large hall they go, and, armed with battledores, commence their fray. Hither and thither flies the little white bird, backwards and forwards move the lithe figures of the girls. The game is at its height: it is just the absorbing moment, when 199 has been delivered, and received, and returned, when Georgie, stopping short suddenly, cries "Oh!" and 200 flutters to the ground. Clarissa, who is standing with her back to the hall door, turns instinctively towards it, and sees Dorian Branscombe. "I have disturbed you. I have come in at the wrong moment?" asks that young man, fearfully. "Ah! you have spoiled our game. And we were so well into it. Your sudden entrance startled Georgie, and she missed her aim." "I am sorry my mere presence should reduce Miss Broughton to a state of abject fright," says Dorian, speaking to Clarissa, but looking at Georgie. Her arm is still half raised, her color deep and rich, her eyes larger, darker than usual; the excitement of the game is still full upon her. As Dorian speaks, her lips part, and a slow sweet smile creeps round them, and she looks earnestly at him, as though to assure him that she is making him a free present of it,--an assurance that heightens her beauty, to his mind. Gazing at her with open and sincere admiration, he tells himself that