Peter Dale had come out early, having quarrelled with his bed almost for
the first time in his life. He was now, however, fast asleep in a
garden-chair under a chestnut-tree. Buntingford, in flannels, and as
fresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled out
through the library window, followed by French and Vivian Lodge.

"I say, what weather," said French, throwing himself down on the grass,
his hands under his head. "Why can't Mother Nature provide us with this
sort of thing a little more plentifully?"

"How much would any man jack of us do if it were always fine?" said
Julian Horne, settling himself luxuriously in a deep and comfortable
chair under a red hawthorn in full bloom. "When the weather makes one
want to hang oneself, then's the moment for immortal works."

"For goodness' sake, don't prate, Julian!" said French, yawning, and
flinging a rose-bud at Horne, which he had just gathered from a
garden-bed at his elbow. "You've had so much more sleep than the rest of
us, it isn't fair."

"I saw him sup," said Buntingford. "Who saw him afterwards?"

"No one but his Maker," said Lodge, who had drawn his hat over his eyes,
and was lying on the grass beside French:--"and _le bon Dieu_ alone knows
what he was doing; for he wasn't asleep. I heard him tubbing at some
unearthly hour in the room next to mine."

"I finished my article about seven a.m.," said Horne tranquilly--"while
you fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch."