The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn-tennis ground. Madge and her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off. "How good of you to come," she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, "and on such a hot day." "Yes, it's something fearful in the shade," said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade. "Pardon me if I think the contrary," replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree. Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head. "Ah! it's easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald," she observed, as she resumed her seat. "You are making Madge jealous." "So he is," answered Madge, with a gay laugh. "I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks." "Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness it's over, and that I have won," he said, wiping his heated brow; "galley slaves couldn't have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat SUB TEGMINE FAGI." "Which means?" asked his wife, lazily. "That onlookers see most of the game," answered her husband, impudently. "I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil." "Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced." "It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it. "He's not the only one who's got that way," said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied. "It's a way we've got in the army, It's a way we've got in the navy, It's a way we've got in the 'Varsity." "And so say all of us," finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll have another, please. Whew, it is hot." "What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.