It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was just beginning to wake up.

Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beaten by a fresh wind, the dancers of the night before emerged one by one.
Peter Dale had come out early, having quarrelled with his bed almost for the first time in his life.

He was now, however, fast asleep in a garden-chair under a chestnut-tree.

Buntingford, in flannels, and as fresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled out through the library window, followed by French and Vivian Lodge.
"I say, what weather," said French, throwing himself down on the grass, his hands under his head.

"Why can't Mother Nature provide us with this sort of thing a little more plentifully ?" "How much would any man jack of us do if it were always fine ?" said Julian Horne, settling himself luxuriously in a deep and comfortable chair under a red hawthorn in full bloom.