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A terrace ran the full length of the house, bounded at one end by a
large conservatory, at the other by an aviary. Wide stone steps, at
intervals, led down from the terrace on to the soft springy turf of
the lawn. Beyond--the wide park; clumps of old trees, haunted by shy
brown deer; and, through the trees, fitful gleams of the river, a
narrow silver ribbon, winding gracefully in and out between long
grass, buttercups, and cow-daisies.
The sun-dial pointed to four o'clock.
The birds were having their hour of silence. Not a trill sounded
from among the softly moving leaves, not a chirp, not a twitter. The
stillness seemed almost oppressive. The one brilliant spot of colour
in the landscape was a large scarlet macaw, asleep on his stand
under the cedar.
At last came the sound of an opening door. A quaint old figure
stepped out on to the terrace, walked its entire length to the
right, and disappeared into the rose-garden. The Duchess of Meldrum
had gone to cut her roses.


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