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It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the library.
Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of the room will make the first remark.
Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful parrot.
"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly indignant.
"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,—nothing," replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?"
"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved voice. "But it won't, I shouldn't wonder, just because the meet is to be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there."
"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What is to become of us?"
"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful alacrity; "they are so amusing."
"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy, tearfully,—"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old acquaintance."