We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night,
hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm
leaf.

"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a
thunderstorm."

Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise
was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily
disliked, voice in the hall.

"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to
come."

I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.

In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in,
the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state
for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle,
being literally plastered with mud.

"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.

"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really
mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."

"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in
from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been