room and just a little
sigh escapes her as the music stops.

'Where would you like to go to?' asks he. 'To supper or the garden?'

'Oh, the garden,' says Miss Seaton, 'fancy naming them together. Supper
is such a very prosaic affair,' and then as they enter the garden, 'One
could almost imagine oneself miles away from London here.'

'They have arranged it awfully well,' says Dalrymple, gazing round on
the illuminated parterres, and then, 'would you like to sit or shall we
walk about?'

'Walk, I think,' replies Philippa, and so they wander on, talking about
nothing in particular, and yet they both forget that there are such
things as sleep and to-morrow. Having come to the end of a narrow path,
and finding two empty chairs they remain there. The lights are dim and
the people passing and repassing are scarcely recognisable, but
presently a lady in a light blue gown attracts Lippa's attention. 'Who
is she?' she says.

Dalrymple turns and looks at her. They hear a murmured sentence and then
'Eh, what!' in rather an unmistakeable tone.

'Oh, her partner is Helmdon,' says Jimmy, 'he's never to be mistaken
with his _what_. The lady, I think, is Mrs Standish, an American widow,
and therefore rolling in riches. I never knew an American widow who
wasn't.'

'It would be very nice,' says Lippa.

'What! to be an American widow?'

She laughs. 'No! to be very rich; there would be no need to think twice
as to whether you could afford anything--'

'What a great many useless things you would get,' says Dalrymple.

'Really! but why?'

'I did not mean you in particular,' he protests. 'I assure you I didn't;
but there are a great many useless things in the shops, which I suppose
people buy. What is the matter, Miss Seaton? For Philippa has risen
hastily with a little scream. 'There's something under my chair, I felt
it move,' she says, woman-like raising her skirt.

Dalrymple bends down, kneel he could not in his best evening trousers,
'I don't see anything,' he says, peering about and nearly choking for
his collar is high and somewhat tight. _Il faut souffrir pour etre
beau.'_

'Oh, but you must,' persists Lippa. 'I felt it move.'

'Wait a second,' says he, producing a match, and proceeding to light it
on the sole of his pump; they are all alone in this part of the garden,
and nobody is watching them, the match will not ignite at first and then
they both bend down at once nearly upsetting each other, and behold
calmly