“I suppose that’s what you call a free and easy translation,” said Peterson, laughing.  “Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil.”

“Let it be iced then,” retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves.  “I always like my ‘something’ iced.”

“It’s a way you’ve got,” said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.

“He’s not the only one who’s got that way,” said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.

“It’s a way we’ve got in the army,
It’s a way we’ve got in the navy,
It’s a way we’ve got in the ’Varsity.”

“And so say all of us,” finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; “I’ll have another, please.  Whew, it is hot.”

“What, the drink?” asked Julia, with a giggle.

“No—­the day,” answered Felix, making a face at her.  “It’s the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith’s advice, by getting out of one’s skin, and letting the wind whistle through one’s bones.”

“With such a hot wind blowing,” said Peterson, gravely, “I’m afraid they’d soon be broiled bones.”

“Go, giddy one,” retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, “or I’ll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game.”

“Not I,” replied Peterson, coolly.  “Not being a salamander, I’m hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;” and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.

Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for it.

“I received a letter last night,” he said, turning his face away from her; “and, as it’s about some important business, I must start at once.”

“I don’t think it will be long before we follow,” answered Madge, thoughtfully.  “Papa leaves here at the end of the week.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Madge, petulantly; “he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything.  He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world.”

There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald’s mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby—­“A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth.”

“Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later,” he said, idly.  “In fact,” with an uneasy laugh, “I believe I’m in one myself.”

“That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday,” she said.  “This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians.”