A little breeze is blowing towards them sweet essences of pinewood and dark fir. Above in the clear sky the fleecy clouds assume each moment a new form--a yet more tender color--now pale blue, now gray, now a soft pink that verges upon crimson. Down far in the hollows a white mist is floating away, away, to the ocean, and there, too, can be seen (playing hide and seek amongst the great trunks of the giant elms) the flitting forms of the children dancing fantastically to and fro. The scent of dying meadow-sweet is on the air, and the hush and the calm of evening. "Dulce, command us to have tea out here," says Sir Mark, removing his cigarette from his lips for a moment. "Dear Dulce, yes; that will be sweet," says Portia, who is very silent and very pale and very beautiful to-day. "Dicky, go and tell some one to bring tea here directly," says Dulce; "and say they are to bring peaches for Portia, because she loves them, and say anything else you like for yourself." "Thanks; Curacao will do me very nicely," says Dicky, with all the promptitude that distinguishes him. "And Maraschino," suggests Sir Mark, in the mildest tone. "And just a suspicion of brandy," puts in Roger, almost affectionately. Overpowered by their amiability and their suggestions, Dicky turns towards the house. "I fly," he says. "Think of me till my return." "Do tell them to hurry, Dicky," says Dulce, anxiously. "They are always so slow. And tell them to bring lots of cake." "You shall have it all in a couple of shakes," says Mr. Browne, encouragingly, if vulgarly. "What's that?" asks Dulce, meaning reproof. "It isn't English, is it? How soon will it be?" "Oh--half a jiff," returns he, totally unabashed. Presently tea is brought, and they are all happy, notably Dicky, who walks round and into the cakes with unceasing fervor. "By-the-by, I wonder Stephen hasn't been here to-day," says Julia, addressing no one in particular. "Something better to do, perhaps," says Portia. "Yes--where _can_ he be?" says Dulce, waking into sudden animation. "'Something better to do?' Why, what could that be?" "Writing sonnets to your eyebrow," answers Roger in an unpleasant tone. "How clever you are!" retorts she, in a tone even more unpleasant, letting her white lids fall until they half-conceal the scorn in her eyes. _Only_ half! "He is such a jail bird--I beg his pardon, a town bird," says Sir Mark, lazily, "that I didn't think anything could keep him in the country so long. Yet, he doesn't _look_ bored. He bears the solitary confinement very well." "There is shooting, isn't there?" suggests Portia. "Any amount of it," says Dicky; "but that don't solve the mystery. He couldn't shoot a haystack flying, not if his life depended on it. It's suicide to go out with him! He'd as soon shoot you or me as anything else. I always say the grouse ought to love him; because I don't believe he knows the barrel of his gun from the stock."