“My dear,” said Lady Lundie, “words have their meanings—­even on a young lady’s lips.  Do you call Croquet, ‘business?’”

“You don’t call it pleasure, surely?” said a gravely ironical voice in the back-ground of the summer-house.

The ranks of the visitors parted before the last speaker, and disclosed to view, in the midst of that modern assembly, a gentleman of the bygone time.

The manner of this gentleman was distinguished by a pliant grace and courtesy unknown to the present generation.  The attire of this gentleman was composed of a many-folded white cravat, a close-buttoned blue dress-coat, and nankeen trousers with gaiters to match, ridiculous to the present generation.  The talk of this gentleman ran in an easy flow—­revealing an independent habit of mind, and exhibiting a carefully-polished capacity for satirical retort—­dreaded and disliked by the present generation.  Personally, he was little and wiry and slim—­with a bright white head, and sparkling black eyes, and a wry twist of humor curling sharply at the corners of his lips.  At his lower extremities, he exhibited the deformity which is popularly known as “a club-foot.”  But he carried his lameness, as he carried his years, gayly.  He was socially celebrated for his ivory cane, with a snuff-box artfully let into the knob at the top—­and he was socially dreaded for a hatred of modern institutions, which expressed itself in season and out of season, and which always showed the same, fatal knack of hitting smartly on the weakest place.  Such was Sir Patrick Lundie; brother of the late baronet, Sir Thomas; and inheritor, at Sir Thomas’s death, of the title and estates.

Miss Blanche—­taking no notice of her step-mother’s reproof, or of her uncle’s commentary on it—­pointed to a table on which croquet mallets and balls were laid ready, and recalled the attention of the company to the matter in hand.

“I head one side, ladies and gentlemen,” she resumed.  “And Lady Lundie heads the other.  We choose our players turn and turn about.  Mamma has the advantage of me in years.  So mamma chooses first.”

With a look at her step-daughter—­which, being interpreted, meant, “I would send you back to the nursery, miss, if I could!”—­Lady Lundie turned and ran her eye over her guests.  She had evidently made up her mind, beforehand, what player to pick out first.

“I choose Miss Silvester,” she said—­with a special emphasis laid on the name.

At that there was another parting among the crowd.  To us (who know her), it was Anne who now appeared.  Strangers, who saw her for the first time, saw a lady in the prime of her life—­a lady plainly dressed in unornamented white—­who advanced slowly, and confronted the mistress of the house.

A certain proportion—­and not a small one—­of the men at the lawn-party had been brought there by friends who were privileged to introduce them.  The moment she appeared every one of those men suddenly became interested in the lady who had been chosen first.