"The Nook," as it was called, was a cosy little place, of somewhat incongruous architecture, the present proprietor having purchased it as a cottage and added wings, gables, turrets and oriel windows to the original erection, until it had assumed quite an imposing appearance. Nothing ancient about it certainly, no Tudor battlements, Georgian frontages nor Norman towers, for it was eminently Victorian in its appearance, and all its arrangements both without and within had all the latest improvements conducive to comfort and luxury. There was a deep verandah round the red brick front, with wide French windows giving access to drawing-room, dining-room and smoking-snuggery, all of which were furnished regardless of cost by the most famous upholsterer in London. From the verandah a velvety smooth lawn spread like an emerald carpet down to the river banks, where there was a boat-house and a flight of broad steps to the water, near to which steps two handsome boats of cedar were generally moored for the convenience of Sir John's guests. Between the river and the house were four huge beech trees, whose foliage made a pleasant shade, and under which were plenty of rustic seats and tables, while a lazy-looking hammock of net swung from a giant limb. On this hot July afternoon one of the tables was spread for afternoon tea, presided over by Olive Maunders, and Sir John who sat near her, while all around were the guests, mostly young men and women with a sprinkling of chaperones. Sir John, a genial-looking old gentleman, was always delighted to surround himself with young people, as he said they made life look bright to him, and certainly there was plenty of laughing and talking as the party on the lawn chatted about the events of the day, listened to the voice of the wind stirring the leaves overhead or watched the boats floating past on the sunlit river, with their loads of young men in flannels and pretty girls daintily costumed in river fashion. Teddy Rudall, a fashionable journalist, society verse writer, and know-everybody-about-town young man was seated in a wicker chair, playing his banjo and singing a nonsensical impromptu ditty suggested by the situation: _Oh, London's summer I like it not, In June the season becomes a bore, The last sensation is quite forgot, The last new lion has ceased to roar Pleasure is over and bills come in; The girl I worshipped has married a peer, I'll leave this town with its life of sin, And not come near it--until next year_. _Oh country's summer I much prefer, For perfume blows from a thousand flowers, Delightful breezes the still leaves stir, Nightingales sing in the twilight hours. Phillis has captured my worn-out heart, But only a moment 'tis hers I fear, I'll love her and love her until we part, And not come near her--until next year_.