"But I want to dance," says she.

That far-off house, full of flowers, seems very much removed from
the music.

"You have been playing tennis all day," says Rylton. "You must be
tired. It is bad for you to fatigue yourself so much. You have had
enough dancing for awhile. Come and sit with me. I, too, am tired."

"Well, for awhile," says she reluctantly.

It is with evident regret that she takes every step that leads her
away from the dancing-room.

The larger conservatory is but dimly lit with lamps covered with
pale pink shades. The soft musical tinkling of a fountain, hidden
somewhere amongst the flowering shrubs, adds a delicious sense of
coolness to the air. The delicate perfume of heliotrope mingles with
the breath of the roses, yellow and red and amber, that, standing in
their pots, nod their heads drowsily. The begonias, too, seem half
dead with sleep. The drawing-room beyond is deserted.

"Now, is not this worth a moment's contemplation?" says Rylton,
pressing her gently into a deep lounging chair that seems to swallow
up her little figure. "It has its own charm, hasn't it?"

He has flung himself into another chair beside her, and is beginning
to wonder if he might have a cigarette. He might almost have
believed himself content, but for that hateful monotonous voice at
his ear.