The car had reached the top of the steep hill, and suddenly left the trees, the narrow, woodland road, with the columbine and wild roses nodding at them from the underbrush, and swept out on to a wide, well-kept driveway, with smooth rolling lawns on each side and a majestic white building as a crowning glory on the top of the hill.
Grandview did not belie its name. High on the topmost ridge, it looked over valley and woods and streams, beyond to farther hills, peak after peak, range after range, fading into a blue shadow against the sky. It was a big, square, garish building, gaunt and unlovely among its lovely surroundings. There were two porches, one up-stairs and one below. They were filled with chairs and gay, brightly fringed hammocks. Behind the hotel was a stable and garage, white and gaunt and square like the main building.
It was the dinner hour and in the country there is never any need to urge one to the table. So, save for a man and a girl, waiting on the steps, there was no one in sight.
"There are the Bartletts now," cried Henrietta, as the train of cars approached the porch. "Poor dears, we have kept them waiting."
"I wonder," said the Watermelon, "why a guy always gets so hungry on Sunday."
"Nothing else to do," suggested Henrietta, "but eat."
The car stopped and she started to alight but the Watermelon was before, offering his hand with a grace bred of absolute unconsciousness of self.
"Alphonse can take your car to the garage and fill it with gasolene," said the general. He always felt that after he had done his best to put a car out of order for good, he practically owned the car and its owner.
"Aw, don't bother," protested the Watermelon.
"Tush, tush, man, it is no bother," and the general turned to the coldly respectful Alphonse.