‘Good little soul,’ he says possessing himself of it.

Meanwhile Dalrymple is devoured with curiosity as to what this earnest conversation can be about.  He has listened patiently to Lady Anne, who has gone through all the books she has read lately, arguing on their merits and demerits, and now she is enlarging on the degenerating manners of the rising generation.

Jimmy puts in a ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ or ‘I quite agree with you,’ every now and then, but for aught he knows he may be agreeing that red’s white, and white is black.  But at last he says something that does not suit Lady Anne for she says, ‘Do you really mean to say you do?’

Jimmy feels caught; what in the name of fortune does he really mean to say, he has not the faintest idea, so he says—­

’I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I did not quite hear what you said, I—­er have rather a bad headache.’ (Oh Jimmy, Jimmy).

‘Have you?’ replies Lady Anne.  ’I hope it is not a very bad one, you ought to have stayed at home; the best thing of course to do is to lie down; and have you ever tried Menthol, white stuff that you rub on your forehead; and then there is a certain kind of powder, I can’t remember what they are called.  Ah!  I have it,’ and Lady Anne who has been fumbling in her pocket produces a salts bottle.  ‘There,’ she says, ’I have nothing else to offer you.’

‘Thanks very much,’ says Dalrymple, and feeling bound to use it, takes a vigorous sniff, but it is strong and proves too much for him, for he is seized with a violent choking.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquires Ponsonby, glancing round.  ’Lady Anne, what have you been doing to him?’

‘Oh, it’s only my salts bottle, he has a headache, you know,’ she replies, while Jimmy looks decidedly embarrassed.

The day passes off very pleasantly, nothing has been forgotten with regard to the luncheon, and the weather is lovely, there is just enough wind to rustle through the trees and prevent the air from being sultry, the spot chosen for the repast is at the top of a hill which is covered with fir trees and tall green bracken, innumerable paths lead up and down and all round it, and at the summit a clearing has been made, and a small picturesque cottage has been built, with small diamond paned windows and a balcony running round two sides; the inmates, an old man and woman, who can provide water, are profuse in their greetings begging the company to sit in the balcony, and Lippa tired and sleepy with last night’s exertion excuses herself from the members of the party who set out for a ramble, and takes advantage of the balcony and gives herself up to sleep:  more than once a little smile hovers round her lips, and Dalrymple who has turned back under pretext of renewed headache, watches her for some time, then fearing to awake her, lights a cigar and strolls away.  What a great deal of trouble and misunderstanding he could have prevented in awaking her,—­but how could he tell.