"You will stay and dine with us, of course," said Mr. Braefield; "and, unless you want very much to be in town to-night, I hope you will take a bed here."
Kenelm hesitated.
"Do stay at least till to-morrow," said Mrs. Braefield. Kenelm hesitated still; and while hesitating his eye rested on Lily, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged lady, and approaching the hostess,— evidently to take leave.
"I cannot resist so tempting an invitation," said Kenelm, and he fell back a little behind Lily and her companion.
"Thank you much for so pleasant a day," said Mrs. Cameron to the hostess. "Lily has enjoyed herself extremely. I only regret we could not come earlier."
"If you are walking home," said Mr. Braefield, "let me accompany you. I want to speak to your gardener about his heart's-ease: it is much finer than mine."
"If so," said Kenelm to Lily, "may I come too? Of all flowers that grow, heart's-ease is the one I most prize."
A few minutes afterwards Kenelm was walking by the side of Lily along the banks of a little stream, tributary to the Thames; Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only held two abreast.
Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly—I think it is called the Emperor of Morocco—that was sunning its yellow wings upon a group of wild reeds. She succeeded in capturing this wanderer in her straw hat, over which she drew her sun-veil. After this notable capture she returned demurely to Kenelm's side.
"Do you collect insects?" said that philosopher, as much surprised as it was his nature to be at anything.