The sky beyond the line of dark greenery was still warm with after-glow of sunset.
Emily quietly sought a chair near Mrs.Rossall, from whom she received a kind look.

Mr.Athel was relating a story of his early wanderings in Egypt, with a leisurely gusto, an effective minuteness of picturing, the result of frequent repetition.

At the points of significance he would pause for a moment or two and puff life into his cigar.

His anecdotes were seldom remarkable, but they derived interest from the enjoyment with which he told them; they impressed one with a sense of mental satisfaction, of physical robustness held in reserve, of life content among the good things of the world.
'Shall we have lights ?' Mrs.Rossall asked, when the story at length came to an end.
'Play us something first,' said Beatrice.

'This end of twilight is so pleasant.' Mrs.Rossall went to the piano, upon which still fell a glimmer from another window, and filled the room with harmony suiting the hour.
Wilfrid had come in and seated himself on a couch in a dark corner; his father paced up and down the grass.