"It wasn't about Capua at all," explained Sylvia indulgently, patting the lovely cheek, as though the other girl had been a child. "It was your grandfather finding out what a bad character I am, and how I wallow in luxury, now I have the chance." "Luxury?" inquired Molly, looking about her rather blankly. Sylvia laughed, this time with a little veiled, pensive note of melancholy, lost on the others but which she herself found very touching. "There, you see you're so used to it, you don't even know what I'm talking about!" "Never mind, Molly," Arnold reassured her. "Neither do I! Don't try to follow; let it float by, the way I do!" Miss Sommerville did not smile. She thrust out her red lips in a wistful pout, and looking down into the sugar-bowl intently, she remarked, her voice as pensive as Sylvia's own: "I wish I _did_! I wish I understood! I wish I were as clever as Sylvia!" As if in answer to this remark, another searcher after tea announced himself from the door--a tall, distinguished, ugly, graceful man, who took a very fine Panama hat from a very fine head of brown hair, slightly graying, and said in a rich, cultivated voice: "Am I too late for tea? I don't mind at all if it's strong." "Oh!" said Molly Sommerville, flushing and drawing away from Sylvia; "_Lord_!" muttered Arnold under his breath; and "Not at all. I'll make some fresh. I haven't had mine yet," said Sylvia, busying herself with the alcohol flame. "How're you, Morrison?" said Mr. Sommerville with no enthusiasm, holding out a well-kept old hand for the other to shake. Arnold stood up, reached under his chair, and pulled out a tennis racquet. "Excuse me, Morrison, won't you, if I run along?" he said. "It's not because you've come. I want a set of tennis before dinner if I can find somebody to play with me. Here, Molly, you've got your tennis shoes on already. Come along." The little beauty shook her head violently. "No ... goodness no! It's too hot. And anyhow, I don't ever want to play again, since I've seen Sylvia's game." She turned to the other girl, breathing quickly. "_You_ go, Sylvia dear. _I'll_ make Mr. Morrison's tea for him." Sylvia hesitated a barely perceptible instant, until she saw old Mr. Sommerville's eyes fixed speculatively on her. Then she stood up with an instant, cheerful alacrity. "That's _awfully_ good of you, Molly darling! _You_ won't mind, will you, Mr. Morrison!" She nodded brightly to the old gentleman, to the girl who had slipped into her place, to the other man, and was off. The man she had left looked after her, as she trod with her long, light step beside the young man, and murmured, "_Et vera incessu patuit dea._" Molly moved a plate on the table with some vehemence. "I suppose Sylvia would understand that language."