'What's the matter?' inquires Ponsonby, glancing round. 'Lady Anne, what
have you been doing to him?'

'Oh, it's only my salts bottle, he has a headache, you know,' she
replies, while Jimmy looks decidedly embarrassed.

The day passes off very pleasantly, nothing has been forgotten with
regard to the luncheon, and the weather is lovely, there is just enough
wind to rustle through the trees and prevent the air from being sultry,
the spot chosen for the repast is at the top of a hill which is covered
with fir trees and tall green bracken, innumerable paths lead up and
down and all round it, and at the summit a clearing has been made, and a
small picturesque cottage has been built, with small diamond paned
windows and a balcony running round two sides; the inmates, an old man
and woman, who can provide water, are profuse in their greetings begging
the company to sit in the balcony, and Lippa tired and sleepy with last
night's exertion excuses herself from the members of the party who set
out for a ramble, and takes advantage of the balcony and gives herself
up to sleep: more than once a little smile hovers round her lips, and
Dalrymple who has turned back under pretext of renewed headache, watches
her for some time, then fearing to awake her, lights a cigar and strolls
away. What a great deal of trouble and misunderstanding he could have
prevented in awaking her,--but how could he tell.

Sometime later Philippa with a sigh of content opens her eyes, she is
still too sleepy to think of moving, so she remains quite still,
presently the sound of voices breaks upon her ears, but she does not
heed them. 'Oh--how--comfortable I am,' she thinks and is just dropping
off to sleep again when she hears her name spoken!