“Sit somewhere in the shade with a book,” she replied, promptly but slowly.

There was a shout of laughter.

“That is just what Mr. Howard replied,” said Bertie, complainingly.

“Oh, Mr. Howard!  Everyone knows that he is the laziest man in the whole world,” remarked Lady Clansford, plaintively.  “What is Mr. Orme going to do?  Where is he?  Does anyone know?”

There was a general shaking of heads and a chorus of “Noes.”

“I had a swim with him this morning, but I’ve not seen him since,” said Bertie.  “It’s no use waiting for Orme; he mightn’t turn up till dinner-time.  Miss Falconer, if I promise not to drown you, will make one for the yacht?  The man told me it would be all ready.”

She shook her head as she helped herself to a couple of strawberries.

“No, thanks,” she said, with her musical drawl.  “I know what that means.  You drift into the middle of the lake or the river, the wind drops, and you sit in a scorching sun and get a headache.  Please leave me out.  I shall stick to my original proposal.  Perhaps, if you don’t drown anyone this time, I may venture with you another day.”

She leant back and smiled at them under her lids, as the discussion flowed and ebbed round her, with an air of placid contempt and wonder at their excitement; and presently, murmuring something to Lady Clansford, who, as chaperone and deputy hostess was trying to coax them into some decision, she rose and went out to the terrace.

There, lying back in a deck-chair, in a corner screened from any possible draught by the glass verandah, was Mr. Howard with one of Sir Stephen’s priceless Havanas between his lips, a French novel in his hand, and a morning paper across his knees.  He rose as she approached, and checking a sigh of resignation, offered her his chair.

“Oh, no,” she said, with a smile which showed that she knew what the effort of politeness cost him.  “You’d hate me if I took your chair, I know; and though, of course, I don’t in the least care whether you hate me or not, I shouldn’t like putting you to the trouble of so exhaustive an emotion.”

Howard smiled at her with frank admiration.

“Let’s compromise it,” he said.  “I’ll drag that chair up here—­it’s out of the sun, you know—­so, and arrange these cushions so, and put up the end for your feet so, and—­how is that, Miss Falconer?”

“Thanks,” she murmured, sinking into the soft nest he had made.

“Do you object to my cigar?  Say so, if you do, and—­”

“You’ll go off to some other nook,” she put in.  “No, I like it.”

His eye shone with keen appreciation:  this girl was not only a beauty—­which is almost common nowadays—­but witty, which is rare.

“Thanks!  Would you like the paper?  Don’t hesitate if you would; I’m not reading it; I never do.  I keep it there so that I can put it over my face if I feel like sleeping—­which I generally do.”