oking excited, was amused, but at the same time slightly
irritated. But they were immediately joined by Richard, who had enjoyed
a very interesting talk with Willoughby and was in a sociable mood.

"Observe my Panama," he said, touching the brim of his hat. "Are you
aware, Miss Vinrace, how much can be done to induce fine weather by
appropriate headdress? I have determined that it is a hot summer day; I
warn you that nothing you can say will shake me. Therefore I am going
to sit down. I advise you to follow my example." Three chairs in a row
invited them to be seated.

Leaning back, Richard surveyed the waves.

"That's a very pretty blue," he said. "But there's a little too much of
it. Variety is essential to a view. Thus, if you have hills you ought
to have a river; if a river, hills. The best view in the world in my
opinion is that from Boars Hill on a fine day--it must be a fine day,
mark you--A rug?--Oh, thank you, my dear . . . in that case you have
also the advantage of associations--the Past."

"D'you want to talk, Dick, or shall I read aloud?"

Clarissa had fetched a book with the rugs.

"_Persuasion_," announced Richard, examining the volume.

"That's for Miss Vinrace," said Clarissa. "She can't bear our beloved
Jane."

"That--if I may say so--is because you have not read her," said Richard.
"She is incomparably the greatest female writer we possess."

"She is the greatest," he continued, "and for this reason: she does not
attempt to write like a man. Every other woman does; on that account, I
don't read 'em."

"Produce your instances, Miss Vinrace," he went on, joining his
finger-tips. "I'm ready to be converted."

He waited, while Rachel vainly tried to vindicate her sex from the
slight he put upon it.

"I'm afraid he's right," said Clarissa. "He generally is--the wretch!"

"I brought _Persuasion_," she went on, "because I thought it was a
little less threadbare than the others--though, Dick, it's no good
_your_ pretending to know Jane by heart, considering that she always
sends you to sleep!"

"After the labours of legislation, I deserve sleep," said Richard.

"You're not to think about those guns," said Clarissa, seeing that his
eye, passing over the waves, still sought the land meditatively, "or
about navies, or empires, or anything." So saying she opened the book
and began to read:

"'Sir Walter Elliott, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man
who, for his own amusement, never to