My elbow rests on the seat, and a book is on my lap.

But, in the middle of the pool, the glare from the water is unbearably bright, but _here_, underneath those dipping, drooped trees, the sun only filters through in little flakes, and the shade is brown, and the reflections are so vivid that the flags hardly know which are themselves--they, or the other flags that grow in the water at their feet.
A while ago I tried to read; but a private vexation of my own--a small new one--interleaved with its details each page of the story, and made nonsense of it.

I have shut the volume, therefore, and, with my hat tilted over my eyes, and my cheek on my hand, am watching the long blue dragon-flies, and the numberless small peoples that inhabit the summer air.

All at once, I hear some one coming, crashing and pushing through the woody undergrowth.

Perhaps it is Algy come to say that he has changed his mind, and that he will not go after all! No! it is only Mr.
Musgrave.