And again the audience made bold to clap their hands; for Miss Georgie Lestrange, despite her self-depreciation, sang very well indeed; and of course Lionel Moore knew how to moderate his voice, so that the combination was entirely pleasing.  The further progress of the little comedy needs not to be described here; it has only to be said that the injured Laura is in the end restored to her repentant lover; and that a final duet between her and Damon closes the piece with the most praiseworthy sentiments: 

    “For their honor and faith be our virgins renown’d,
    Nor false to his vows one young shepherd he found;
    Be their moments all guided by virtue and truth,
    To preserve in their age what they gain’d in their youth,
    To preserve in their age what they gain’d in their youth.”

Lord Rockminster rose from his chair, stretched his long legs, and threw away his cigarette.

“Very well done,” said he, slowly.  “Congratulate all of you.”

“This is the first time I ever saw Rockminster sit out a morning performance,” observed Percy Lestrange, with a playful grin.

“As for you young things,” the mistress of the house said to her girl-guests, as they were all trooping in by the French windows again, “you must hurry home and get in-doors before the servants are up.  I don’t want this frolic to be talked about all over the town.”

“A frolic, indeed!” Miss Georgie protested, as her brother was putting her cloak round her shoulders.  “I don’t call it a frolic at all.  I call it very serious business; and I’m looking forward to winning the deepest gratitude of the English public—­or at least as much of the English public as you can cram into your garden, my dear.”

Then, as soon as the light wraps and dust-coats had been distributed and donned, the members of the gay little party said good-bye to Lady Adela in the front hall, and went down the carriage sweep to the gate.  Here there was a division; for the Lestranges were going north by Holland Lane to Notting Hill; while Lord Rockminster and his two sisters, making for Palace Gardens Terrace, walked with Lionel Moore only as far as Campden Hill Road; thereafter he pursued his journey to Piccadilly alone.

And even now London was not fully awake, though the sun was touching the topmost branches of the trees, and here and there a high window, struck by the level rays, flashed back a gleam of gold.  In this neighborhood the thoroughfares were quite deserted; silence reigned over those sleeping houses; the air was sweet and cool; now and again a stirring of wind brought a scent of summer—­blossom from within the garden-enclosures.  It is true that when he got down into Kensington Road he found a long procession of wagons slowly making their way into the great city; but this dull, drowsy noise was not ungrateful; in much content and idly he walked away eastward, looking in from time to time at the beautiful greensward of Kensington Gardens and