from her hands. She threw down the hammock with a petulant gesture
and stood looking at the syringa-bush as if it were her mortal enemy.
Geoffrey Strong laid down his pen.

A few minutes later he came sauntering leisurely around the corner.
One would have said he had been spending an hour in the garden, and
was now going in.

"Good morning, Miss Blyth! glorious day, isn't it? going to sling a
hammock? let me do it, won't you?"

Vesta Blyth looked at him with sombre eyes. "I couldn't hold it!"
she said, unwillingly. "There is no strength left in my hands."

"You are still tired, you see," said Geoffrey, cheerfully, as he
picked up the hammock. "That's perfectly natural."

"It isn't natural!" said the girl, fiercely. "It's devilish!"

"This is a good place," said Geoffrey, paying no attention to her.
"Combination of shade and sun, you see. Pillow at this end? There!
how is that?"

"Thank you! it will do very well."

She stretched herself at full length in the hammock. Her movements
were perfectly graceful, he noted; and he made a swift comparison
with the way his cousins flounced or twittered or slumped into a
hammock.