The pampas grass raised its feathery spears from mounds of green at the end of the meadow.

A breadth of water gleamed.

Already the convolvulus moth was spinning over the flowers.

Orange and purple, nasturtium and cherry pie, were washed into the twilight, but the tobacco plant and the passion flower, over which the great moth spun, were white as china.

The rooks creaked their wings together on the tree-tops, and were settling down for sleep when, far off, a familiar sound shook and trembled--increased -- fairly dinned in their ears--scared sleepy wings into the air again--the dinner bell at the house.
After six days of salt wind, rain, and sun, Jacob Flanders had put on a dinner jacket.