It was nine o'clock.

The urn was on the gleaming table, the bell was sounding, Mr.Athel stepped in straight from the lawn, fresh after his ten minutes' walk about the garden.

Wilfrid Athel appeared at the same moment; he was dark-complexioned and had black, glossy hair; his cheeks were hollower than they should have been, but he had not the aspect of an invalid.

Mrs.Rossall glided into the room behind him, fresh, fair, undemonstrative.

Then came the twins, by name Patty and Minnie, delicate, with promise of their mother's English style of beauty; it was very hard to distinguish them, their uncle had honestly given up the pretence long ago, and occasionally remonstrated with his sister on the absurdity of dressing them exactly alike.