After dinner they all returned to the garden, and Hubert fetched a box which had just been opened. ‘I’ve picked up a few little things I thought might interest you, while I was away,’ he said; and he proceeded to unpack his treasures and present them. For his uncle there were several antiques, one or two rare coins, and a silver crucifix; for Sophy two or three mosaics, some beautiful bits of Venetian glass, and two brooches--one a cameo, the other a piece of old-fashioned workmanship in plain gold. Sophy thanked him, but she felt disappointed. She had thought it likely that he would bring her some little thing, and she had unconsciously resolved that she would keep it as long as she lived. These presents were too fine, too valuable, and there were far too many of them. She could not invest any one of them with a special interest. If she did, it would be her own selection, not his. ‘And what have you been about, little one, all this time?’ he asked, laying his hand suddenly on Sophy’s, as it lay on the garden-table. ‘Oh, nothing very remarkable,’ she answered, quietly withdrawing her hand. ‘We went to the Academy, of course, and to the Grosvenor--and to a Rose Show; and I have been to one or two garden-parties.’ ‘We were thinking of going to the seaside next week,’ put in Mr. Blake; ‘but we can’t find a house to suit us; and the drainage is always imperfect at these places--always. Some of those seaside resorts I consider nothing else than fever-traps. My wonder is that the people who stay there are alive.’ This was said with a judicial solemnity. ‘If you had been in some of the towns I have visited, uncle, you would have had more cause for wondering. The drainage, I believe, was simply non-existent.’ Mr. Blake closed his eyes and shuddered. Sophy rose to fetch something from the house. ‘If there are any letters for me, Sophy, you might bring them along,’ said Hubert. Presently Sophy reappeared, bearing a tray on which was a pile of letters and newspapers. Hubert sprang up to relieve her of it. ‘I had no idea there could be so many, or I wouldn’t have troubled you,’ he said, looking at the heap with an air of disgust. Then he lit a cigar, and sat down again. ‘Aren’t you going to open your letters, Hubert?’ said his uncle, after a pause. ‘No; there’s such a heap of them, and some are sure to be annoying. It will do quite as well to-morrow.’ ‘Some of them may be important,’ rejoined the old man, after another pause. Hubert saw that his laziness displeased the querulous old gentleman, so he began slowly to open his letters.