Jotapata’s lengthy romance had died a natural death in the winter that had been spent between Egypt and Palestine. So far from picking up ideas from it there, Babie, in the actual sight of Mount Hermon’s white crown, had begged not to be put in mind of such nonsense, and had never recurred to it; but the wells of fancy had never been dried, and the young people were happily putting together their bits of journal, their bits of history, the description of the great amphitheatre, a poem of Babie’s on St. Louis’s death, a spirited translation in Scott-like metre of Armine’s of the opening of the AEneid, also one from the French, by Sydney, on Arab customs, and all Lord Fordham had been able to collect about Hippo, also “The Single Eye,” by Allen, and “Marco’s Felucca,” by Armine and Babie in partnership, and a fair proportion of drollery. “There was a space left for the wedding, the greatest event the ‘Traveller’s Joy’ had ever had on record,” said Sydney, as she touched up the etching at the top of her paper, sitting on a low stool by a low mother-of-pearl inlaid Eastern table. “The greatest and the last,” chimed in Babie, as she worked away at the lace she was finishing for the bride. “I don’t see why it should be the last of the poor old ‘Joy,’” said Lord Fordham, sorting the MSS. which were scattered round him on the ground. “Well, somehow I feel as if we had come to the end of a division of our lives,” returned Babie. “Having done with swaddling bands, eh, Infanta?” said Lord Fordham, while Armine hastily sketched in pen and ink, Babie, with her hair flying and swaddling bands off, executing a war-dance. She did not like it. “For shame, Armine! Don’t you know how dreadful it is to lose dear Miss Ogilvie?” “Of course, Babie,” said her brother, “I didn’t think you were such a Babie as not to know that things go by contraries.” “It is too tender a spot for irony, Armie,” said Lord Fordham. “Well,” said Armine, “I shall be obliged to do something outrageous presently, so look out!” “Not really!” said Sydney. “Yes, really,” said Babie, recovering; “I see what he means. He would like to do anything rather than sit and think that this is the last time we shall all be together again in this way.” “I’m sure I don’t see why we should not,” said Sydney. “To say nothing of meetings in England; Duke and Armine have only to cough three times in October, and we should all go off together again, and be as jolly as ever.” “I don’t mean to cough,” said Armine, gravely, “I’ve wasted enough of my life already.” “In our company, eh?” said Sydney, “or are you to be taken by contraries?” “No,” said Armine. “One has duties, and lotus-eating is uncommonly nice, but it won’t do to go on for ever. I wouldn’t have given in to it this winter if Allen hadn’t _floored_ us.” “And then when you thought I had got a tutor, and should do some good with him,” chimed in Babie, “he must needs go and fall in love and spoil our Miss Ogilvie.”