quently wore.

At the last moment, unable to resist the charm of her favourite flower,
she secured the bunch of violets in the laces at her breast.

Then Marion's voice was heard outside the door, and telling her maid
that she would not require her services again that night, that she need
not wait up for her, Philippa hurried to meet her friend.

"Dear thing! How nice you look," was Marion's comment. "What a lovely
frock."

"I am so glad you like it. Poor mamma! She said it was too Early
Victorian for anything. She despairs over my frocks."

"It is perfect," said Marion decidedly. "Thank goodness you know what
suits you, and haven't got your skirt tied in at the ankles so that you
shuffle like a Japanese."

"Or hop like a kangaroo!" added Philippa, laughing.

They descended into the hall, where Major Heathcote was standing in
front of a cheerful fire which, notwithstanding the time of year, was
crackling and spluttering on the hearth.

"Don't be shocked," he said cheerfully. "I hope you are not one of
those uncomfortable people who consider fires immoral between May and
October. The evenings are none too warm in this realm where sunshine
never lingers and summer is unknown, and this house is always cold, or
I feel it so--probably because I have lived for so long in more sultry
climes."

"Yes, I expect you miss the sunshine," said Philippa as they walked
into the dining-room.

"No. Do you know, I don't. Here in England people can't understand
that you can have too much of it. You get so weary of perpetual
glaring sunshine, and unchanging blue sky. There seems to be no
variety and no rest, I remember as I landed from the trooper at
Southampton after the South African war, hearing a Tommy say with a
sigh of relief, 'Thank Gawd for a blooming grey sky,' and I quite
agreed with him."

"I love the sunshine," said Marion, "and certainly we don't get too
much of it here."

"No," replied Philippa; "but you do get the most wonderful cloud
effects. Driving here this evening the sky was perfectly beautiful--a
great bank of clouds like mountains and soft fleecy ones touched with
pink overhead."

"What Dickie used to call the weeny woolly ones," said Marion softly.
"Dear little boy, I wish he were here now. I remember once when he was
much smaller we were walking on Bessmoor where you get such a wonderful
view--he looked up and said, 'Does God live up there?' and I said,
'Yes,' because it was the only