in the minds of some of them as the loveliest summer man could wish
for.




CHAPTER XI

'Love pardons the unpardonable past.'--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.


It is six o'clock. The tea things have been taken away, and the
occupants of the little drawing-room are all apparently lazily enjoying
themselves.

Mabel has the baby on her knee, her husband is dozing in an armchair,
Jimmy is sitting half-in half-out of the window, Paul is reading, and
Philippa is lying on the sofa.

'Lippa,' says Dalrymple, 'sing us something.'

'What would you like?' she answers, rising slowly.

'Anything,' he replies.

She runs her fingers over the keys and then sings 'The Garden of Sleep.'

Paul closes his book as she begins, looking at her earnestly.

Why does she sing that song, so close as they are to the real spot; and