On the gravel walk stood Admiral Buzza with his three daughters.

Again the great man was in full dress.  Behind him in Indian file advanced Sophia, Jane, Calypso, each in a straight frock of vivid yellow surmounted by a straw hat of such enormous brim as to lend them a fearful likeness to three gigantic fungi.  As far as the hats allowed one to see from above, each wore sandal-shoes, and carried a small green parasol, neatly folded.

At the sight of this regiment of visitors, Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys paused with razor in air and blood trickling down his chin.  The Admiral marched resolutely up the path and struck three distinct knocks upon the door.

It was opened by the youth in buttons.

The Admiral produced a sheaf of visiting cards and handed them to the page, as if inviting him to select one, note it carefully, and restore it to the pack.

“Is the Honourable Frederic Goodwyn-Sandys or the Honourable Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys at home?”

Words cannot do justice to the Admiral’s tone.

The regiment was marched into the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys rose to receive them.

[Illustration:  Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rose to receive them.]

She was undeniably beautiful; not young, but rather in that St. Martin’s Summer when a woman learns for the first time the value of her charms.  Her hair was of a glossy black, her lips red and full, her figure and grey morning gown two miracles.  But on her eyes and voice you shall hear Mr. Moggridge, who subsequently wasted a deal of Her Majesty’s time and his own paper upon this subject.  From a note-book of his, the early pages of which are constant to a certain Sophia, I select the following—­

“TO GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING.”

Whenas abroad, to greet the morn,
I mark my Graciosa walk,
In homage bends the whisp’ring corn;
Yet, to confess
Its awkwardness,
Must hang its head upon the stalk.

And when she talks, her lips do heal
The wound her lightest glances give. 
In pity, then, be harsh and deal
Such wounds, that I
May hourly die
And, by a word revived, live!

All this was very shocking of Mr. Moggridge; for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys was not his Graciosa at all.  But it was what we were fated to come to, in Troy.  And Graciosa’s voice and smile were certainly inspiring.

Let us return to “The Bower.”  The Admiral having presented his daughters, and arranged them in line again, cleared his throat and began—­

“Though aware that, as judged by the standard of the best society, this visit may be condemned as premature, I have thought right to stifle such apprehensions in my anxiety to assure you of a welcome in Troy—­I may say, an open-armed welcome.”

Here the Admiral actually spread his arms abroad.  His hostess retreated a step.

“My daughters,—­Calypso, I perceive an errant curl—­my daughters, madam, will bear me out when I say that only excess of feeling prevents their mother from joining in this—­may I call it so?—­this ovation.”