It does not take us long to fall into the groove of watering-place life—the most absolutely idle and aimless life in the world. Who does not know the routine? A vast amount of lounging and promenading on piazzas, a considerable amount of flirtation under lawn-trees, much smoking on the part of the men, unlimited gossip on the part of the women, idle hours in the bowling-alley, idle hours by the river pretending to fish, idlest hours of all in the ballroom, criticizing faces and costumes, and dancing to poor music. This order of existence pleases only two of our party—Aunt Markham, who likes comfort and the baths, and Mr. Lanier, who likes comfort and society. Sylvia tolerates it—being young and pretty, and not averse to admiration and belleship—but she wears a wistful look when the horses are brought out for a ride or drive, and she confides to me that she is longing to be “up and away” to the wild, fair regions that lie yet unexplored before us. Eric and Charley make no secret of the fact that they are bored, and the latter relapses into his usual state of indolence—out of which our day or two of roughing it temporarily roused him. He finds it too much trouble to contend with Ralph Lanier and half a dozen other old friends and new admirers for a share of Sylvia’s society, so he calmly relinquishes all of it, and devotes himself to a flirtation with a pretty Memphis belle. I see them for hours together on the lawn—Charley lying lazily on the shadow-dappled grass. I find them by moonlight in remote nooks of the piazzas, and see them stroll away for long walks together. Sylvia says nothing, but her color heightens once or twice when some one remarks on Mr. Kenyon’s “devotion” to Miss Hollis, and she is more gracious than I have seen her yet in her manner to Mr. Lanier. This gentleman expresses himself very much pleased with the Springs and the company. “It would be much more sensible to spend the rest of the summer here, instead of wandering about the mountains, encountering all manner of hardships,” he remarks one day, with the air of one who has fully made up his mind. Eric utters a long, low whistle. “If you have any intention of that kind, mother,” he says, “pray give me warning, and I’ll be off to-morrow.” “To Buck Forest, I suppose,” says Sylvia, glancing round. “To Buck Forest or some other place where there is something to be done besides lounging and smoking. To a man who flirts—Charley there, for instance—a place like this may be tolerable; but to me—” “I beg to observe,” says Charley, “that not even flirting can make it tolerable. A man must do something in self-defense—and flirting is one of the easiest things to do— but, as for finding pleasure in it, that’s another matter.” “Don’t try to make us believe, my good fellow, that you haven’t found pleasure in Miss Hollis’s society,” says Mr. Lanier, with the amiable pleasantry of a victorious rival.