n everybody. It goes to their heads. They fall
under its strange influence, even against their will, and become, in a
measure, different from themselves. Solemn people are often unnaturally
flippant on Sunday afternoon, and flippant people frequently retire to
bed on the verge of tears. The hearty bow-wow girl is conscious of
being unpleasantly chastened by some invisible power; and the stupid
young man sinks into a strange apoplectic condition, with his chin sunk
on his waistcoat, and his mind drowned in the waters of forgetfulness.
Sloth is in the air, and a decorous desultoriness pervades humanity. It
is as if thunder was in the social atmosphere. The repose is not quite
natural. Those who are in high positions, and therefore have something
to live down to, long to imitate the hapless rustic, and wander forth
among the fields, sucking a straw, and putting their arm round a waist.
Unmelodious persons are almost throttled by a desire to whistle; but the
true singer feels as dumb as a tree. Lunch pervades the human
consciousness, and the prospect of tea engages the mind to an extent
which is neither quite normal nor entirely free from a suspicion of
greediness. Dogs snore much louder than usual, and the confirmed
sufferer from insomnia sleeps with an indecent soundness never attained
by the beauty in the fairy tale. Undoubtedly, Sunday throws the world
entirely out of gear, and that is one of its chief worldly charms. It is
well to be out of gear at least once in the week.

This particular Sunday afternoon had not left the party at the cottage
unscathed, as the acute observer would have immediately seen on
penetrating into the pretty shady garden, with its formal rose walks,
and its delightful misshapen yew trees. Madame Valtesi, for instance,
was knitting, a thing she had scarcely ever been noticed to do within
the memory of man. Mrs. Windsor was going about in garden gloves, with a
spud and a pair of clippers, damaging the flower-beds, with an air of
duty and almost sacred responsibility. Mr. Amarinth was reading the
newspaper like a married man; and Lord Reggie was lying in a hammock,
trying to kill flies by clapping his hands together. Lady Locke was
indoors, writing the unnecessary letter to New Zealand, which has
already been referred to; and Tommy, fatigued to tears by luncheon, had
gone to bed, and was dreaming in an angry manner about black beetles,
unable quite to attain the dignity of a nightmare, and yet depr