He gave a few orders necessary to the probable abandonment of the house, and then returned to it.

Shot and shell were already dropping in the field below.
A thin ridge of blue haze showed the line of skirmish fire.

A small conical, white cloud, like a bursting cotton-pod, revealed an open battery in the willow-fringed meadow.

Yet the pastoral peacefulness of the house was unchanged.

The afternoon sun lay softly on its deep verandas; the pot pourri incense of fallen rose-leaves haunted it still.
He entered his room through the French window on the veranda, when the door leading from the passage was suddenly flung open, and Miss Faulkner swept quickly inside, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it, panting and breathless.
Clarence was startled, and for a moment ashamed.