ia Beaufort, suddenly, feeling she has
already spent quite too long a time over her biscuit and claret.

"Ah! thank you," says Portia, quickly, turning to her almost before she
had finished speaking--her great, soft eyes even larger than usual. "I
have been so longing to say that for the last five minutes."

"The 'lost chord' has been struck again," says Dicky Browne. "Mrs.
Beaufort, I won't be deserted in this barefaced fashion. If you are
determined to court death through night dews, _I_ shall court it with
you."

Julia simpers, and looks delighted. Then they all rise from the table,
and move towards the balcony; all--that is--except Sir Mark, who (though
he would have dearly liked to accompany them into the mystic moonlight)
still lingers behind to bear company with Sir Christopher, and strive to
lay the ghost that so plainly is haunting him to-night.

Joyously they all descend the steps, and then break into a little run as
their feet touch the velvet grass. The sky is bright with pale blue
light, the air is soft and warm as sultry noon. A little baby wind--that
ought to be in bed, so sweet and tender it is--is roaming here and there
amongst the flowers, playing with the scented grasses, and losing itself
amongst the bracken, lower down.

One can hear the roar of the distant ocean breaking itself against the
giant rocks; one can hear, too, in strange contrast, the chirp, chirp of
the green grasshopper.

As they come within view of the fountain, all their mouths form
themselves into many round Os, and they say, "Ah!" as with one breath.

The scene is indeed charming beyond description. The water of the
fountain is bright as silver, great patches of purest moonlight lying on
it as calm as though in death. The water-lilies tremble faintly, as it
might be in terror of the little gods who are leaning over them. A
shadow from the trees in the background falls athwart a crouching Venus.
Some pretty, low chairs are standing scattered about, and Portia sinking
into one, the others all follow her example, and seating themselves on
chairs on the soft sward begin to enjoy themselves.

The men produce cigars, and are presently happy in their own way. Roger
or Dicky asks every one, indiscriminately, if she would like a
cigarette; a question responded to in the negative by all, though in
truth Dulce would have dearly liked one.

Fabian, who has come with them, is lying full length upon the grass,
with his hands behind his