"Oh, I don't say that. Dear me! I'd no idea it _could_ be so hot in January." As they strolled along beside the long hedge of laurel, the carriage slowly following them at a little distance, the sun beat strong upon the white road, blotched here and there with the black irregular shadows of the ilexes. The girl undid the pelisse across her breast, with a fine impetuosity, and let it swing open as she walked. She stopped suddenly. "Hark! What bird was that?" "'It was the nightingale, and not the lark,'" suggested Colville lazily. "Oh, _don't_ you think _Romeo and Juliet_ is divine?" demanded Imogene, promptly dropping the question of the bird. "I don't know about Romeo," returned Colville, "but it's sometimes occurred to me that Juliet was rather forth-putting." "You _know_ she wasn't. It's my favourite play. I could go every night. It's perfectly amazing to me that they can play anything else." "You would like it five hundred nights in the year, like _Hazel Kirke_? That would be a good deal of Romeo, not to say Juliet." "They ought to do it out of respect to Shakespeare. Don't you like Shakespeare?" "Well, I've seen the time when I preferred Alexander Smith," said Colville evasively. "Alexander Smith? Who in the world is Alexander Smith?" "How recent you are! Alexander Smith was an immortal who flourished about the year 1850." "That was before I was born. How could I remember him? But I don't feel so very recent for all that." "Neither do I, this morning," said Colville. "I was up at one of Pharaoh's balls last night, and I danced too much." He gave Imogene a droll glance, and then bent it upon Effie's discreet face. The child dropped her eyes with a blush like her mother's, having first sought provisional counsel of Imogene, who turned away. He rightly inferred that they all had been talking him over at breakfast, and he broke into a laugh which they joined in, but Imogene said nothing in recognition of the fact. With what he felt to be haste for his relief she said, "Don't you hate to be told to read a book?" "I used to--quarter of a century ago," said Colville, recognising that this was the way young people talked, even then. "Used to?" she repeated. "Don't you now?" "No; I'm a great deal more tractable now. I always say that I shall get the book out of the library. I draw the line at buying. I still hate to buy a book that people recommend." "What kind of books do you like to buy?" "Oh, no kind. I think we ought to get all our books out of the library." "Do you never like to talk in earnest?" "Well, not often," said Colville. "Because, if you do, you can't say with a good conscience afterward that you were only in fun." "Oh! And do you always like to talk so that you can get out of things afterward?" "No. I didn't say that, did I?" "Very nearly, I should think." "Then I'm glad I didn't quite." "I like people to be outspoken--to say everything they think," said the girl, regarding him with a puzzled look.