“What do you think of a husband that always knows exactly what’s in the pantry?” she asked him.
A moment later she couldn’t remember what he had said to this. Perhaps it’s because I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts. The only thing I really remember his saying was his comical question whether he need finish his beans. It’s odd, how much he conveys without saying anything, just by a look.
Lizzie had put on the cake. Phyllis saw at once that there were only six custards. She could tell, by the way Lizzie planked them down, there were no more in the kitchen. If they all took one there wouldn’t be any for Lizzie herself, and that would mean bad temper. She refused the custard. She wanted a peach, but felt that the effort of peeling it was too much. Soft fuzzy skin and wet fingers. Then George, with that occasional insight that always surprised her, passed her one peeled and sliced.
“Yes,” he said, “we ought to have a bathe, unless there’s a storm. Relieve the pressure on the bathroom.”
“Then we’ll all be nice and clean for the Picnic,” exclaimed the children.
“Miss Clyde is coming,” George continued. “She’s an artist too, perhaps Mr. Martin knows her.”
“Bring the jug of iced tea in the garden, let’s finish it out there,” said Phyllis. “It’s stifling here.—Children, you go and get your naps.”
The little table was under the pine trees, the other side of the croquet oval. The grove smelt warm and slippery. Now there are the long hours of the afternoon to be lived through, somehow. George sprawled himself on the brown needles, the smoke of his pipe drifted past her in a blue whiff. Mr. Martin put a chair for her.
“I love these pine trees,” she said. “They’re always whispering.”
“It isn’t polite to whisper.”