The scene is indeed charming beyond description. The water of the fountain is bright as silver, great patches of purest moonlight lying on it as calm as though in death. The water-lilies tremble faintly, as it might be in terror of the little gods who are leaning over them. A shadow from the trees in the background falls athwart a crouching Venus. Some pretty, low chairs are standing scattered about, and Portia sinking into one, the others all follow her example, and seating themselves on chairs on the soft sward begin to enjoy themselves. The men produce cigars, and are presently happy in their own way. Roger or Dicky asks every one, indiscriminately, if she would like a cigarette; a question responded to in the negative by all, though in truth Dulce would have dearly liked one. Fabian, who has come with them, is lying full length upon the grass, with his hands behind his head, gazing dreamily at the glimpse of the far-off sea, that shows through the dark-green firs. Dulce's silvery laugh is waking an echo lower down. There is a great sense of rest and happiness in the hour. A big, lazy bumblebee, tumbling sleepily into Portia's lap, wakes her into life. It lies upon her, looking larger and blacker than its wont, as it shows against the pallor of her gown. She starts, and draws herself up with a half-suppressed cry. Fabian, lifting the bee from her knees, flings it high into the air, and sends it off on the errand it was probably bound on before it fell in love with Portia. "How foolish of me to be frightened of it--pretty thing," she says, with a faint blush. "How black it looked." "_Every_thing frightens me," says Julia Beaufort pensively, "_everything_!" "Do I?" asks Dicky Browne, in a tone full of abject misery. "Oh! _say_ I don't." "I meant insects you know, and frogs, and horrid things like that," lisps Julia. "And they always will come flying round one just on a perfect night like this, when"--sentimentally--"Nature is wrapt in its profoundest beauty!" "I don't think I ever saw a frog fly," says Dicky Browne, innocently. "Is it nice to look at? Is it funny?" "No! it's only silly--like you!" says Dulce throwing a rosebud at him, which he catches dexterously. "Thank you," he says, meekly, whether for the speech or the flower, he leaves vague. "Stephen Gower is coming over here to-night," says Roger suddenly. "To-night? Why didn't you ask him to dinner?" asks Dulce, a note of surprise in her tone. "I did ask him, but, for some reason I now forget, he could not come. He confessed he was lonely, however, in that big barn of a house, and said he would feel deeply grateful if you would permit him to drop in later on. I said you would; and advised him to drop in by all means, though how people do that has always been a puzzle to me." "Who is Stephen Gower?" asks Portia, curiously, of no one in particular. She is leaning back in her chair, and is fanning herself languidly.