There is a great glitter about morning in the hills which drags the optimist for long walks in the small hours upon an empty stomach, and causes even the pessimist to attack his grape fruit at breakfast with a jovial trill. The little tables on the verandah of the New Hotel have a glamour of heaped bright fruit upon white linen. In the garden the tangerines grow radiantly among their shining sober green, the butterflies blow across the pale young grass. There is a salmon-pink azalea, whose smile attracts the humming-birds, and a riotous clump of salvia. There is a benevolent John Crow, who strikes attitudes upon the roof of the annex, and stands for hours with his ragged wings spread open to the sun, as he surveys the diamond world. Really he is hoping that you will fall dead over your breakfast, but you lose this thought in the glitter of a hill morning. For the sake of your own peace of mind, never get close enough to a John Crow to see his gargoyle face. Content yourself with admiring his barbaric grace from a distance, and forget why he is there. Courtesy was characteristically still in bed. She never was one to hear the call of a singing world. The gardener came in with eyes crinkled by the sun, and his hair standing up in a spirited way all over the top of his head. Did you know that it is possible to be a specialist in posing without giving thought to the appearance? “You look as if you had been fighting,” snapped Mrs. Rust. “Disgraceful state of hair.” “I wish I had,” replied the gardener. “I could fight beautifully at this moment. I never knew what it was to breathe until this morning.” “Air is indeed a blessing” said the lady novelist. “I have a passion for air. I sometimes think I should die without it. How interesting to meet any one who loves fighting. You ought to be a soldier. I myself am a peace-loving woman, but I often have quarrels forced upon me.” “Let me conduct them for you,” suggested the gardener, wrestling with his grape fruit. “Show me the enemy.” “I wish I could. I think I will,” said the lady. “I came to Greyville to stay with a dear friend, and a young woman, of no standing whatever, picked up anyhow and anywhere, not only turned me out of my friend’s house, but now insists on my moving two of my trunks from the sick-room.” “Oh, there is a sick-room, is there?” “Yes, my friend’s little nephew is ill.” “But didn’t your friend protest? Has the young woman a hypnotic power over her?” “My friend is very weak. The young woman is only a sort of second-rate children’s nurse, apparently.” “And do you want to go back there?” “No, I prefer to be here. But it is so undignified not to be consulted.” “That’s very true,” said the gardener, whose interest was beginning to wane. “That road below is as crowded and as noisy as Piccadilly,” said Mrs. Rust. “Disgraceful.” “Market day,” replied the novelist rapturously. “Such a blaze of colour. Such a babel of tongues....”