He would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying just a little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and “soldiers” on the lawn⁠—the soldiers with their flowery crowns. He would not move, but she would come up to him and say: “Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am sorry!” and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand. That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good dog.

It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the Grand Stand at Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows cropping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with their tails. He smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. Ah! that was why there was such a racket of bees. They were excited⁠—busy, as his heart was busy and excited. Drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was drugged and drowsy. Summer⁠—summer⁠—they seemed saying; great bees and little bees, and the flies too!