“It’s awful,” she said cheerfully. “All
(Two pages missing here: pp 240,241.)
purple and white irises, stopped lazily to watch the lizards darting in and out of the sun-baked wall, and then gone in to write a letter. She had few correspondents, but there was an old nurse who thought all the world of her, and was made happy by a sheet of unformed, straggling writing, and bare bones of fact, always supported by a dictionary, and unimpeded by stops.
“It is very pleasant here,” Sylvia wrote; “there are so many flowers. We make expeditions”—sh decided against by help of the dictionary—“and the weather is beautiful Granny and Teresa are quite well I am very happy—” She had reached so far when Wilbraham came in. She flung down her pen and jumped up joyfully.
“Oh, Walter, where have you been? I was wondering so!”
“Down by the shore.”
There was a set, hunted look on his face, as if he had not slept, which was true. He had extracted the key of a side door from the chambermaid, and had wandered for hours through the mystical southern night.
“Oh, you promised to take me to the shore when you went.”
“Did I?”
“Never mind. I will go next time,” said Sylvia happily. Whatever he did or did not do contented her. “I have been very busy.”