Літо
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Whentheyhadgoneshetookcouragetobatheherhotfaceinoneofthemarblebasins,andtostraightenherownhat-brim,whichtheparasolsofthecrowdhadindented.Thedressesintheshopshadsoimpressedherthatshescarcelydaredlookatherreflection;butwhenshedidso,theglowofherfaceunderhercherry-colouredhat,andthecurveofheryoungshouldersthroughthetransparentmuslin,restoredhercourage;andwhenshehadtakenthebluebroochfromitsboxandpinneditonherbosomshewalkedtowardtherestaurantwithherheadhigh,asifshehadalwaysstrolledthroughtessellatedhallsbesideyoungmeninflannels.
Herspiritsankalittleatthesightoftheslim-waistedwaitressesinblack,withbewitchingmob-capsontheirhaughtyheads,whoweremovingdisdainfullybetweenthetables.“Notf’ranotherhour,”oneofthemdroppedtoHarneyinpassing;andhestooddoubtfullyglancingabouthim.
“Oh,well,wecan’tstayswelteringhere,”hedecided;“let’strysomewhereelse—”andwithasenseofreliefCharityfollowedhimfromthatsceneofinhospitablesplendour.
That“somewhereelse”turnedout—aftermorehottramping,andseveralfailures—tobe,ofallthings,alittleopen-airplaceinabackstreetthatcalleditselfaFrenchrestaurant,andconsistedintwoorthreericketytablesunderascarlet-runner,betweenapatchofzinniasandpetuniasandabigelmbendingoverfromthenextyard.
