The air trembled round the bright green cypresses
behind the house. The roof steamed. All the windows were shut, all the
jalousies shut, yet it was so hot that no one could stir within. The
maid slept in the kitchen; the two elderly mistresses of the house dozed
upon their beds. Not a movement; not a sound.
Gradually, along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of
distant carriage-wheels. The sound came nearer and nearer, till one
could see the carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin,
cab-horse, his bones starting under the shaggy hide. Inside the carriage
reclined a handsome middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned
towards the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat
trudged up the hill at the side.
"Goneril," said Miss Hamelyn, "let me beg you again to come inside the
carriage."
"Oh, no, Aunt Margaret; I'm not a bit tired."
"But I have asked you; that is reason enough."
"It's so hot!" cried Goneril.
"That is why I object to your walking."
"But if it's so hot for me, just think how hot it must be for the
horse."
Goneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor halting, wheezing nag.
"The horse, probably," rejoined Miss Hamelyn, "does not suffer from
malaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the
middle heat of the summer.
Pages:
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243