The heat of the weather was excessive; only the mildest kinds of recreation could be indulged in. In the afternoon there was much seeking for cool corners, and a favourite spot was that embowered portion of the shrubbery in which we first saw Isabel. Tea was brought here. Colonel Stratton lay on the grass, deep-contemplative; his wife read a novel; Robert Asquith smoked cigarettes, and was the chief talker. Sandhurst Stratton was in the stables, a favourite haunt, and Ada sat by herself in the library. Robert talked of Smyrna, and developed projects for settling there, causing Mrs. Stratton every now and then to look up from her book and view him askance. “By-the-bye,” he said, “who knows a meritorious youth out of employment? An English friend of mine out there writes to ask me to find him a secretary, some one who knows French well, a man of good general education. Can you help me, colonel?” “‘Fraid not,” murmured the one addressed, whose straw hat had slipped over his eyes. “What salary does he offer?” inquired Isabel. “A hundred and fifty pounds, and residence in his own house.” “Would he take me?” she asked, turning it into a jest. The subject dropped; but on the following morning, as she was riding with her cousin, Isabel referred to it again. “Is it the kind of thing,” she asked, “that would suit Mr. Kingcote?” “Kingcote?” He seemed to refresh his memory. “Does he want something of the sort?” “A few weeks ago he did. I don’t know that he would care to leave England; but I think it might be suggested to him,” she added, patting her horse’s neck. “He has a sister, a widow, with her two children dependent on him.” “But, in that case, so small a salary would be no use.” “I believe he has some small means of his own. If he were disposed to offer himself, would you give him your recommendation?” “Certainly. If you recommend him it is quite enough.” “He lived some time on the Continent, and I am sure he would be suitable--unless any knowledge of business is required.” “None at all; purely private affairs.” “I should like to have a list,” he said, looking at her with admiration, “of the people you have befriended in your life. Did you ever let one opportunity slip by?” Isabel reddened, and did not speak. “Yes, one,” Robert added, bethinking himself. “What do you refer to?” she asked, still in some confusion, variously caused. “Myself. Shall we give them a canter?” After luncheon, Isabel went to her boudoir and sat down at the little writing-table. The sun had been on the windows all the morning, and in spite of curtains the room was very hot; cut flowers surcharged the air with heavy sweetness. She put paper before her, but delayed the commencement of writing. A languor oppressed her; she played with the pen, and listened to the chirping of birds in the trees just outside the windows; there was no other sound.