Some ten days before, walking alone at the edge of town one calm
afternoon, where I might commune with Nature, of which I have always
been fond, I noted an humble vine-clad cot, in the kitchen garden of
which there toiled a youngish, neat-figured woman whom I at once
recognized as a person who did occasional charring for the Flouds on
the occasion of their dinners or receptions. As she had appeared to be
cheerful and competent, of respectful manners and a quite marked
intelligence, I made nothing of stopping at her gate for a moment's
chat, feeling a quite decided relief in the thought that here was one
with whom I need make no pretence, her social position being sharply
defined.
We spoke of the day's heat, which was bland, of the vegetables which
she watered with a lawn hose, particularly of the tomatoes of which
she was pardonably proud, and of the flowering vine which shielded her
piazza from the sun. And when she presently and with due courtesy
invited me to enter, I very affably did so, finding the atmosphere of
the place reposeful and her conversation of a character that I could
approve. She was dressed in a blue print gown that suited her no end,
the sleeves turned back over her capable arms; her brown hair was
arranged with scrupulous neatness, her face was pleasantly flushed
from her agricultural labours, and her blue eyes flashed a friendly
welcome and a pleased acknowledgment of the compliments I made her on
the garden.
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