"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.

"No--the day," answered Felix, making a face at her. "It's the kind of
day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith's advice, by getting out
of one's skin, and letting the wind whistle through one's bones."

"With such a hot wind blowing," said Peterson, gravely, "I'm afraid
they'd soon be broiled bones."

"Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, "or I'll drag
you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game."

"Not I," replied Peterson, coolly. "Not being a salamander, I'm hardly
used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;"
and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia
Featherweight.

Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter
behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was
telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for
it.

"I received a letter last night," he said, turning his face away from
her; "and, as it's about some important business, I must start at once."

"I don't think it will be long before we follow," answered Madge,
thoughtfully. "Papa leaves here at the end of the week."

"Why?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Madge, petulantly; "he is so restless,
and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his
life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world."

There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald's mind a line from Genesis,
which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby--"A fugitive and a
vagabond thou shalt be in the earth."

"Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later," he said, idly. "In
fact," with an uneasy laugh, "I believe I'm in one mysel