CHAPTER IV
It was a very hot afternoon in the beginning of July, rather more than a month later, and Brayton Hall in general appeared to be having a very suitable siesta. All along the south front of the house, which looked toward the garden, the blinds were down, and the veranda, which stretched the whole length of the ground-floor, and was screened from the glare of the day by Indian curtains, contained two very lazy-looking figures. In front of the veranda was a broad walk made of old paving-stones—an adorable material—from between the joints of which sprang tight little cushions of velvety moss and minute spires of flowering stonecrops. Iceland poppies had been planted there, too, but the heat of the last few weeks had been too much for them, and they looked somewhat pale and anaemic. Beyond, on the same level, was an assembly of small formal flower-beds, with narrow paved paths in between, having for the centre of their system a grey stone fountain, where a somewhat rococo nymph, very suitably clad for this hot weather, poured water from a high-held jug into the basin below. Beyond, again, ran a low balustrade of columns, and a flight of half a dozen steps opposite the fountain led down to the lawn and less formal part of the garden. Just below the terrace the ground had been artificially levelled to give room for a couple of tennis-courts, but beyond it fell away towards a lake of an acre or so in extent, half covered with the broad leaves and golden flowers of water-lilies, while on each side it rose upward in gentle undulations, between shrubs and big flower-beds that looked as if they had been allowed to do as they chose for a considerable period, and was gradually brought to a green end in shrubberies. The whole place, as could be seen at the most cursory glance, had been laid out with skill and care, but not less evident were the signs of subsequent neglect. Below the lake the ground again declined rapidly, and in the V-shaped gap between the down on each side could
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