The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. You want music. Sheppard returned no answer. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. ” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing.
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