“I hope you’ll forgive my coming in this way,” he said.  “I’m an old friend of Hugh’s.”

“I’m very glad to have Hugh’s friends,” she answered.

He looked at her again.

“Is tea ready?” inquired Mrs. Kame.  “I’m famished.”  And, as they walked through the house to the garden, where the table was set beside the stone seat:  “I don’t see how you ever can leave this place, Honora.  I’ve always wanted to come here, but it’s even more beautiful than I thought.”

“It’s very beautiful,” said Honora.

“I’ll have a whiskey and soda, if I may,” announced Mrs. Rindge.  “Open one, Georgie.”

“The third to-day,” said Mr. Pembroke, sententiously, as he obeyed.

“I don’t care.  I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

“Except to open them,” he replied.

“You’d have made a fortune as a barkeeper,” she observed, dispassionately, as she watched the process.

“He’s made fortunes for a good many,” said Chiltern.

“Not without some expert assistance I could mention,” Mr. Pembroke retorted.

At this somewhat pointed reference to his ancient habits, Chiltern laughed.

“You’ve each had three to-day yourselves,” said Mrs. Rindge, in whose bosom Mr. Pembroke’s remark evidently rankled, “without counting those you had before you left the club.”

Afterwards Mrs. Kame expressed a desire to walk about a little, a proposal received with disfavour by all but Honora, who as hostess responded.

“I feel perfectly delightful,” declared Mrs. Rindge.  “What’s the use of moving about?” And she sank back in the cushions of her chair.

This observation was greeted with unrestrained merriment by Mr. Pembroke and Hugh.  Honora, sick at heart, led Mrs. Kame across the garden and through the gate in the wall.  It was a perfect evening of early June, the great lawn a vivid green in the slanting light.  All day the cheerful music of the horse-mowers had been heard, and the air was fragrant with the odour of grass freshly cut.  The long shadows of the maples and beeches stretched towards the placid surface of the lake, dimpled here and there by a fish’s swirl:  the spiraeas were laden as with freshly fallen snow, a lone Judas-tree was decked in pink.  The steep pastures beyond the water were touched with gold, while to the northward, on the distant hills, tender blue lights gathered lovingly around the copses.  Mrs. Kame sighed.

“What a terrible thing it is,” she said, “that we are never satisfied!  It’s the men who ruin all this for us, I believe, and prevent our enjoying it.  Look at Adele.”

Honora had indeed looked at her.

“I found out the other day what is the matter with her.  She’s madly in love with Dicky.”

“With—­with her former husband?”

“Yes, with poor little innocent Dicky Farnham, who’s probably still congratulating himself, like a canary bird that’s got out of a cage.  Somehow Dicky’s always reminded me of a canary; perhaps it’s his name.  Isn’t it odd that she should be in love with him?”