As the afternoon sun still shone, and only a light south-western breeze tempered the heat gratefully, even the greatest devotees to dancing and the barn among the company found themselves reluctantly compelled to take advantage of the unwonted favour shown to them by the weather, and to forego still their favourite resource. The party was a picnic, ostensibly an out-of-doors party when the state of the sky would permit, and there remained so much unvitiated simplicity and matter-of-factness among its members as to deter them from behaviour out of keeping with their professed purpose. There might be considerable inconvenience in carrying it out, such as was involved in the obligation of the presence of the volunteer band, Mr. Dadd’s tendency to lumbago, Mrs. Polley’s fears of cricks in the neck, and the common lively irrational horror of the whole insect world with the exception of butterflies, another relic of the prejudices of the company’s betters in the past; but since the clouds would not collect—strange reluctance—or the fine weather break-down, these men and women were prepared to go manfully and womanfully through their parts, with a kind of heavy loyalty. The seniors sauntered aimlessly here and there, sat uncomfortably on the tree stumps, staring at nothing, and only waxed animated when everyday interests came to the surface in their desultory conversation. Oliver caught snatches of old Dadd’s harangue on the fall in calicos and Mrs. Polley’s animadversion on the rise in lemons—together with the complaints of all the men of the sauciness of apprentices, and of all the women of the incompetency of maids-of-all-work, between stray notes of robins, the rustle of falling leaves, and the trickle of water. Oliver wished with all his heart that the undertones of nature which her guests had come out to hear, had been more attended to, and had risen loud enough to drown the clatter of trade. As it was, he rather admired the elderly people’s politeness in veiling their impatience for tea, the second gipsy meal of those who were so unlike gipsies, and concealing the alacrity with which they should start on the homeward drive. The juniors played games and danced under difficulties on the uneven ground, among the long grass, to the fife and drum band. Oliver could not screw up his courage to the point of attempting such precarious polking, while Fan continued engrossed with her opportune patient. But Fan’s brother exerted himself to play for two in blind-man’s-buff, till the players, tired of the sport, found more scope for amusement in perpetrating audacious thefts on the articles of apparel their companions had laid aside in order to join in the dance or the game with comfort and spirit—the victims making frantic efforts to recover their lost property.