A second window in a corner opened into a small fernery, in which there was a miniature water-fall that trickled with a slumberous sound over moss-grown rockwork. There could hardly have been a better room for afternoon tea on a sultry summer day; and afternoon tea at Ashbourne included iced coffee, and the finest peaches and nectarines that were grown in the county; and when the Duke happened to drop in for a chat with his wife and daughter, sometimes went as far as sherry and Angustura bitters. The Duchess received her daughter with her usual delighted air, as if the ethereal-looking young lady in India muslin had verily been a goddess. "I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself in the orchid-houses on such an afternoon as this, my pet," she said anxiously. "No, indeed, mamma; it is much too warm for the orchid-houses. I have been in the shrubbery reading, or trying to read, but it is dreadful sleepy weather. We shall all be glad to get some tea. Oh, here it comes." A match pair of footmen brought a pair of silver trays: caddy, kettle, and teapot, and cups and saucers on one; and a lavish pile of fruit, such as Lance would have loved to paint, on the other. Lady Mabel took up the quaint little silver caddy and made the tea. Roderick began to eat peaches. Lord Mallow, true to his nationality, seated himself by the Duchess, and paid her a compliment. "There are some more parcels for you, Mabel," said the fond mother presently, glancing at a side-table, where sundry neatly-papered packets suggested jewellery. "More presents, I suppose," the young lady murmured languidly. "Now I do hope people have not sent me any more jewellery. I wear so little, and I--" Have so much, she was going to say, but checked herself on the verge of a remark that savoured of vulgar arrogance. She went on with the tea-making, uncurious as to the inside of those dainty-looking parcels. She had been surfeited with presents before she left her nursery. A bracelet or a locket more or less could not make the slightest difference in her feelings. She entertained a condescending pity for the foolish people who squandered their money in buying her such things, when they ought to know that she had a superfluity of much finer jewels than any they could give her. "Don't you want to see your presents?" asked Rorie, looking at her, in half-stupid wonder at such calm superiority. "They will keep till we have done tea. I can guess pretty well what they are like. How many church-services have people sent me, mamma?" "I think the last made fourteen," murmured the Duchess, trifling with her tea-spoon. "And how many 'Christian Years'?" "Nine." "And how many copies of Dore's 'Idylls of the King'?" "One came this morning from Mrs. Scobel. I think it was the fifth." "How many lockets inscribed with A. E. I. or 'Mizpah'?" "My darling, I could not possibly count those. There were three more by post this morning."