“Oh!” with a peculiar intonation, “I wonder if Aunt Gay knows that. Do you remember any anecdotes about crossness, Fenny?” I am afraid of what my answer might have been, for I was considerably nettled at Rolf’s malicious tone, but happily Judson came at that moment with a message from Mrs. Markham that even Rolf did not dare to disobey, for he ran off at once, without bidding me good-night, and leaving all his tackle strewn over the floor for Judson to clear. As soon as I was left in solitude, I went to the open window. It was clear moonlight again. There were the tree-shadows, and the long, silvery path across the meadows; a warm radiance from the drawing-room was flung across the terrace. The same sweet bird-like voice that I had heard in the orchard that morning was singing an old-fashioned ballad— “My mother bids me bind my hair.” Someone clapped their hands and said “Bravo!” when it was finished. “What a lovely evening! Do come into the garden, Adelaide; it is quite warm and balmy.” And then there was a rustle and movement underneath me, a sweep of dark drapery, followed by the whisk of a white gown, as Gay ran down the steps, pursued by Rolf. Two gentlemen sauntered down the terrace; one of them was Mr. Hawtry; I could hear his voice quite plainly. “This is a capital cigarette, squire. When a man is not much of a smoker, he will not put up with an inferior article. I have some cigars by me now——” The remainder of the interesting sentence was lost in the distance. Men are rather satirical on the subject of women’s talk. They quiz us dreadfully, and insist that our main topic is bonnets, but I am not sure that we could not retaliate with equal force. Bonnets can be treated as works of art, but could anything be more trivial and worthless than a cigar? They were still talking about the odious things when they returned, only I was too disgusted to listen any more. I was in a bad humour, that was certain—one of those moods when only a real tough piece of work can relieve one. I closed the window and drew down the blind, and then armed myself with my pocket dictionary. I would write a long letter to my mistress, and tell her about our afternoon on the beach, and I would pick out the hardest and most difficult words—those that I generally eschewed. I heard afterwards I had written a beautiful letter, without a single mistake, and that my mistress read it over and over again—that is, that she considered it beautiful, because it was all about the children. “Nonsense, Merle, it was a sweet letter, and I showed it to my husband.” I was in a better humour when I had finished it, and called Hannah.