"Oh, no!" cried Marjolaine, innocently, "it’s not so bad as that. But it’s her evening hour with Doctor Johnson, and she does n’t feel quite equal to it." Ruth had overheard this last statement. "Why, bless her heart!" she interrupted tartly, "she ’s been sitting with that bird all day!" Barbara lifted great reproachful eyes at her. "Unkind Ruth! The lonely bird!" Marjolaine went on rapidly, addressing Basil, "So she wondered whether you would take her place for once." "Why, of course!" cried Basil. "With the greatest pleasure in life!" Barbara glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and said very demurely, "Oh, but you don’t know what you may hear." "Yes," exclaimed Ruth, sharply, "he swears horribly." "I’ll soothe his savage breast!" cried Basil, enthusiastically. "I ’ll be Orpheus with his Lute! I ’ll play the Kreutzer Sonata to him!" Barbara turned anxiously to Marjolaine: this wouldn’t do at all! "No! no!" cried the latter, "just let him talk! Just let him talk!" But Basil was already inside the house. Marjolaine and Barbara retired, giggling, into the Gazebo, where they sat and twittered mutual confidences. Ruth joined the other ladies, who were listening to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. The Admiral was leaning out of his upstair window to take in his thrush. "Indeed, yes," continued Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, "I have collected the witty sayings of my distinguished friends. I shall make a book of them. A small quarto. I shall call it, ’Pearls’"—he caught sight of the Admiral—"’Pearls before Swine.’" The Admiral disappeared. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn proceeded, "Did I tell you my friend Sherry’s bonn mott about the weather?" "Yes! Oh, yes!" cried all three ladies, with alacrity, and fled from him, leaving him abashed and rather offended. He saw Barbara in the Gazebo, and brightened up. "Ah! but Miss Barbara was not there!" He crossed on tip-toe, and, much to her alarm, seized her by the arm and dragged her to the elm. "Imagine, then," he boomed, condescendingly, while Barbara signalled in vain to Marjolaine for help, "Imagine, then, that you are standing—ah—just where you are standing; and I am Sheridan." Barbara had no idea of what he was talking about. Had he suddenly gone mad? If so, was he harmless? "You remember how we perspired on Saturday evening?" "Oh!" cried Barbara, with disgust. "I come up to you—so." He suited the action to the word. "I place my hand familiarly on your shoulder—so—" "Really!" cried Barbara, indignantly. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn explained. "You understand: you are Sheridan—no; I am Sheridan and you are me. And I—that is Sheridan—say to you—I mean, me—’Brooke, my boy—’" Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn’s pretty maid, came rushing out of the house. She was in a flutter of excitement; also she was in a dreadful hurry—and here was her master, talking to a lady! "’Brooke, my boy’"—repeated Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, leading up to his point. "Master—! Master—!" whispered Jane, hoarsely.