Over knolls and through hollows the little cavalcade jogged steadily, till, mounting a gentle eminence, they wound through a grove of camphor and Flame-of-the-Forest.

Above the branches rose the faded lilac shaft of an ancient pagoda, ruinously adorned with young trees and wild shrubs clinging in the cornices.
At the foot of this aged fantasy in stone, people were laughing.

The three riders broke cover in time to see Mrs.Forrester, flushed and radiant, end some narrative with a droll pantomime.

She stood laughing, the life and centre of a delighted group.
"And Gilbert Forrester," she cried, turning archly on her husband, "said that wasn't funny!" Gilly tugged his gray moustache, in high good-nature.

Chantel, Nesbit, and Kempner laughed uproariously, the padre and the dark-eyed Miss Drake quietly, Heywood more quietly, while even stout, uneasy Mrs.Earle smiled as in duty bound.