"I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil."
"Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced."
"It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.
"He's not the only one who's got that way," said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.
"It's a way we've got in the army,
It's a way we've got in the navy,
It's a way we've got in the 'Varsity."
"And so say all of us," finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; "I'll have another, please. Whew, it is hot."
"What, the drink?" asked Julia, with a giggle.
"No—the day," answered Felix, making a face at her. "It's the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith's advice, by getting out of one's skin, and letting the wind whistle through one's bones."
"With such a hot wind blowing," said Peterson, gravely, "I'm afraid they'd soon be broiled bones."
"Go, giddy one," retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, "or I'll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game."