"If we mean to get up tableaux, we certainly ought to set about them at once," says Herrick, indolently.
"There doesn't seem to be any work in anybody," says Olga, in despair.
"Try me," says Lord Rossmoyne, bending over her chair. He has only just come, and his arrival has been unannounced.
"Ah! thank you!"—with a brilliant smile. "Now you do look like business."
It is Monday, and four o'clock. Aghyohillbeg lying basking in the sunshine is looking its loveliest,—which is saying a great deal. The heat is so intense on this sweet July day that every one has deserted the house and come out to find some air,—a difficulty. They have tried the grass terraces, in vain, and now have congregated beneath a giant fir, and are, comparatively speaking, cool.
Just before luncheon Madam O'Connor brought Monica home in triumph with her from Moyne, to find Desmond, handsome and happy, on her doorstep, waiting with calm certainty an invitation to that meal. He got it, and to dinner likewise.
"We have set our hearts on tableaux, but it is so difficult to think of any scene fresh and unhackneyed," says Olga, gazing plaintively into Lord Rossmoyne's sympathetic face.
"Don't give way," says Mr. Kelly, tenderly. "It must be a poor intellect that couldn't rise superior to such a demand as that. Given one minute, I believe even I could produce an idea as novel as it would be brilliant."
"You shall have your minute," says Olga, pulling out her watch. "Now—begin——"
"Time's up," she says, presently, when sixty seconds have honestly expired.