Fond of a compliment, when not too frankly racy,[7] and knowing how susceptible the exile was to clothes, the Countess had arrayed herself in a winter gown of kingfisher-tinted silk turning to turquoise, and stencilled in purple at the arms and neck with a crisp Greek-key design; while a voluminous violet veil, depending behind her to a point, half-concealed a tricorne turquoise toque from which arose a shaded lilac aigrette branching several ways. “I shall probably die with heat, and of course it’s most unsuitable; but poor old man, he likes to recall the Capital!” the Countess panted, as, nursing heath, poems and pears, she followed Mademoiselle Olga Blumenghast blindly towards the shore. Oars, and swaying drying nets, a skyline lost in sun, a few moored craft beneath the little rickety wooden pier awaiting choice:-- “The boatmen, to-day, darling, seem all so ugly; let’s take a sailing-boat and go alone!” “I suppose there’s no danger, darling?” the Countess replied, and scarcely had she time to make any slight objection, than the owner of a steady wide-bottomed boat--the _Calypso_--was helping them to embark. The Island of St Helena, situated towards the lake’s bourne, lay distant some two miles or more, and within a short way of the open sea. With sails distended to a languid breeze the shore eventually was left behind; and the demoiselle cranes, in mid-lake, were able to observe there were two court dames among them. “Although he’s dark, Vi,” Mademoiselle Olga Blumenghast presently exclaimed, dropping her cheek to a frail hand upon the tiller, “although he’s dark, it’s odd how he gives one the impression somehow of perfect fairness!” “Who’s that, darling?” the Countess murmured, appraising with fine eyes, faintly weary, the orchid-like style of beauty of her friend. “Ann-Jules, of course.” “I begin to wish, do you know, I’d brought Pomegranates, and worn something else!” “What are those big burley-worleys?” “Pears....” “Give me one.” “Catch, then.” “Not that I could bear to be married; especially like _you_, Vi!” “A marriage like ours, dear, was so utterly unworthwhile....” “I’m not sure, dear, that I comprehend altogether?” “Seagulls’ wings as they fan one’s face....” “It’s vile and wrong to shoot them: but oh! How I wish your happiness depended, even ever so little, on me.” The Countess averted her eyes. Waterfowl, like sadness passing, hovered, and soared overhead, casting their dark, fleeting shadows to the white, drowned clouds, in the receptive waters of the lake. “I begin to wish I’d brought grapes,” she breathed. “Heavy stodgy pears. So do I.” “Or a few special peaches,” the Countess murmured, taking up the volume of verse beside her, with a little, mirthless, half-hysterical laugh. _To a Faithless Friend._ _To V.O.I. and S.C.P._ _For Stephen._ _When the Dormitory Lamp burns Low._ Her gaze travelled over the Index.