“What would you have her do?” he said—­for he was a very tolerant and good-natured person.  “Sit and look on at that idiotic comic gag?”

“Certainly,” said the little dame, with decision.  “She is in the scene.  She is not Miss Burgoyne; she is Grace Mainwaring; and she ought to appear interested in everything around her.”

“Oh, well, perhaps I have been to blame,” he said, rather uneasily.  “I dare say I encouraged her.  But really I had no idea the audience could have noticed it.”

“It was meant for them to notice it,” Nina said, vindictively; and then, as she would have nothing more to say on this wretched subject, she turned to look at the gay lilacs and laburnums in the neighborhood of the Serpentine, at the shimmering blue of the wide stretch of water, and at the fleet of pleasure-boats with their wet oars gleaming in the golden sunlight.

Her equanimity was soon restored; she would have nothing further to say of Miss Burgoyne on such a gracious afternoon; and, indeed, when they had crossed the Thames at Putney, and got into the opener country down by Barnes and East Sheen and Richmond, she was chattering away in her delight over everything they encountered—­the wide commons, the luxuriant gardens, the spacious mansions, the magnificent elms, the hawthorn-trees, red and white, that sweetened all the soft summer air.  Of course when they arrived at the top of Richmond Hill they halted for a minute or two at the Star and Garter to water the horses, while they themselves had a stroll along the terrace, a cup of tea, and a look abroad over the wide, hazy, dream-like landscape stretching far out into the west.  Then they crossed the river again at Richmond Bridge; they bowled along by Twickenham and Teddington; finally they drove through the magnificent chestnut-avenues of Bushey Park, which were just now in their finest blossom.  When they stopped at the Mitre, it was not to go in; Nina was to be shown the gardens of Hampton Court Palace; there would be plenty of time for a pleasant saunter before dinner.

Miss Burgoyne, indeed!  Nina had forgotten all about Miss Burgoyne as the little party of three passed through the cool gray courtyard of the palace and entered into the golden glow of the gardens—­for now the westering sun was rich and warm on the tall elms and limes and threw deep shadows on the greensward under the short black yews.  They walked down towards the river, and stood for a long time watching the irregular procession of boats—­many of them pulled by young girls in light summer dresses that lent some variety of color to this sufficiently pretty picture.  It was altogether an attractive scene—­the placid waters, the soft green landscape, the swift, glancing boats, from which from time to time came a ripple of youthful laughter or song.  And indeed Nina was regarding rather wistfully those maidens in palest blue or palest pink who went swinging down with the stream.