r June. Where is your sunshade? You will want it. Yes,
that is right; put it up--my hat shades me. Now then, Ford, are you
ready? Go on, Jack. What are you about, Jill? Are not my ponies pretty,
Miss Lambert? Richard gave them to me last birthday, but I am afraid I
plagued him a good deal beforehand to provoke such unusual generosity.
There is nothing like teasing when you want a thing."

Bessie smiled, but remained silent; she was tired, and not quite
inclined for repartee. They had turned into a long, lovely lane, so
narrow that no vehicle could have passed them, and the thick hedgerows
were full of pink and white briar roses and other wild flowers; on
either side lay hop fields. Bessie uttered a delighted exclamation.

"Yes, I told you you would admire our Kentish lanes. They are pretty
now, but in the winter they are not quite so pleasant. Well, did Mrs.
Sinclair meet you, as she promised?"

"No, her son came instead; he said his mother was seriously indisposed,
and unable to keep her engagement."

"Neville met you. How extremely odd! How on earth did you discover each
other? Were you very much embarrassed, Miss Lambert?"

"No; it was a little strange at first, but Mr. Sinclair was very kind
and pleasant, and soon put me at my ease."

"Oh, Neville always gets on with ladies; there is certainly no fault to
find with him in that respect. His civility is natural to him; he is
just as polite to an old woman with a market basket and a few apples
tied up in a blue spotted handkerchief as he is to a lady whose dress
has been made by Worth."

"I call that true politeness," returned Bessie warmly.

"There is not much of the precious commodity to be found in our days;
the young men one meets in society are not cut after that pattern. And
so Mrs. Sinclair is ailing again?"

"'Seriously indisposed,' was Mr. Sinclair's expression; and he looked
rather grave, I thought."

"My dear creature, Neville always looks grave, as though he were engaged
in a criminal investigation. He is a barrister, you see, and he troubles
himself if his mother's finger aches. The dear old lady is always
ailing, more or less, but there is never much the matter--a creaking
door; you know the sort; only Neville always makes the worst of it. Now,
look here, Miss Lambert, that is what we call the village--just those
few cottages and the inn; there is not even a church; we have to walk
over to Melton, a mile and a half away. Isn't that pond pretty,