Barbara and Algy in front, Frank and I behind.

I had planned differently, but Algy is obtuse, Barbara will come into the manoeuvres, and Frank seems simply indifferent.

So it happens, that all through the park, and up the bit of dusty white road we are out of ear-shot of the other two.
"A sky worthy of Dresden!" says Mr.Musgrave, throwing back his head and looking up at the pale blue sultriness above our heads--the waveless, stormless ether sea--as we pace along, with the church-bells' measured ding-dong in our ears, and the cool ripe grasses about our feet.
"_Dear_ Dresden!" say I, pensively, with a sigh of mixed regret and remorse, as I look back on the sunshiny hours that at the time I thought so long, in that fair, white foreign town.
"Dear Linkesches Bad!" says Frank, sighing too.
"Dear Groosegarten!" cry I, thinking of the long pottering stroll that Roger and I had taken one evening up and down its green alleys, and that _then_ I had found so tedious.
"Dear Zwinger!" retorts Frank.
"Dear Weisserhirsch!" say I, half sadly.

"Dear white acacias! dear drives under the acacias!" "_Drives under the acacias!_" echoes Frank, dropping his accent of sentimentalism, and speaking rather sharply.

"We never had any drives under the acacias! We never had any drives at all, that I recollect!" "_You_ had not, I dare say," reply I, carelessly, "but _we_ had.