“And there are no mysteries,” cried Ray, indignantly; three people walking solemnly along a garden-path abreast is poor fun. “Didn’t my mother put croquet on the card?” he added; “it is always for croquet the people are asked. It is a pity you don’t like it.” Ray wanted very much to be rude, but he was better than his temper, and did not know how to carry out his intention. “Isn’t it?” said St. Clair coolly; “a thousand pities. I am always getting into trouble in consequence, but what can I do, Miss Trevor? I hate croquet. It is _plus fort que moi_; and you do not like it either?” “Not very much,” Lucy answered, and she moved along somewhat timidly between the two men who kept one on each side of her. Raymond did not say much. It was he who had brought her away, who had suggested “a turn,” but it was this fellow who was getting the good of it. Ray’s heart was very hot with indignation, but his inventive powers were not great, and in his anger he could not find a word to say. “It is a peculiarity of society in England that we can not meet save on some practical pretence or other. Abroad,” said St. Clair, with all the confidence of a man who has traveled, “conversation is always reason enough. After all, it is a talk we want, not games. We want to know each other better, to become better friends; that is the object of all social gatherings. The French understand all these things so much better than we.” This the two young people beside him listened to with awe, neither of them having ever set foot on foreign soil. “For my part,” cried Ray, suddenly, “I don’t see the good of that constant chattering. Far better do something than to be forever talk--talking. It may suit the French, who ain’t good for much else; but we want something more over here. Besides, what can you talk about?” the young man went on; “things can’t happen just to give you a subject, and when you have said it’s a fine day, and what a nice party that was at the Smiths, what more have you got to say?”