retire to my bedroom and go comfortably to sleep, as Mesdames Fleming and Lister are going to do, I am morally certain. Alice and Milly have vanished after their babies; the Misses Lister are whispering together; Silvia is giving Sir George Vestris a liberal education at the window. A sound of merriment comes faintly from Fane's study; clearly men have a better notion of passing time than ladies. Reading novels on Sunday is forbidden, but it is no sin to act them. Spicy, full-flavoured, exciting lover-stories run through more quickly and easily on this day than any other, and more love nonsense is talked on a Sunday than in all the remaining six days of the week.
"Are you going to church this afternoon?" asks Paul Vasher's voice behind me, as I stand drumming my fingers against the glass.
"It is too hot," I say, turning round. "Oh, I do feel so cross! Why may not one work, or dig, or do something useful on Sunday afternoon?"
"We are going to church," says Miss Lister, appearing before us; "will you come, Miss Adair?"
"No, thanks," I say, looking up at the burning, cloudless vault overhead. "Is it not too far for you?"
They do not think it is, and go away to "put on their things," which means half an hour's hard labour before the looking-glass, trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
"Don't betray me if I tell you a secret," says Paul, laughing, "but I think the Listers expect Brabazon and Oliver to accompany them to church, and they are hiding"
"What cowards! Did they promise to go?"
"They temporized, I believe."
"Alas! for the glory of the British flag," I say, "is not that one of them peeping round the beech-tree?"
"It is."
