"What a fickle person you are, Mr. Rudall," remarked a pretty blonde when the song came to an end.
"I always am—in poetry, Mrs. Manson," replied Rudall, idly touching the strings of his banjo, with an amused smile on his boyish face.
"And what about real life?"
"Depends very much on the lady."
Everyone laughed at this rejoinder except Olive Maunders, who sat staring at the river with a frown on her handsome face.
"It's a case of 'Gather ye Rosebuds while ye may' with Rudall," said Sir John in a jovial manner.
"Herrick," observed Mr. Rudall meditatively, "was a philosopher, and if by rosebuds he meant ladies, I'm not at all averse to following his example."
Olive Maunders evidently found the conversation too frivolous, for she suddenly arose, and without saying a word went up to the house, and retired into the drawing-room. Sir John looked after her with a rather pained expression on his face, and, seizing the opportunity afforded by Teddy Rudall beginning another song, he slipped away to look for her.
She was seated in a lounging chair, leaning forward with bent head and clasped hands, the frown still on her face. A striking looking girl, tall and slender, with a handsome resolute countenance of a pronounced brunette type, and her small head, with its coils of smooth black hair, was well set on her sloping shoulders.
"Why did you run away so suddenly, Olive?" asked her father, sitting beside her, and taking one of her slim hands in his own.