"Good afternoon!"
"That last lot of jelly was better than the first," he said softly.
"Was it? You must favor vintage jelly!"
"I came to call—my p.p.c. call—and to see your garden," he added.
"Is there any particular feature that interests you?" she asked. "The date-trees? The aviary? The nursery?"
"No," he answered, "not just yet. It is very cool here under the umbrella-trees, isn't it? I have walked all the way from the Galways and I'll rest a while, if I may."
He was no longer the play cavalier in overornamented chaparejos and cart-wheel spurs, but a lame fellow in overalls, who was hitching toward her on crutches, his cowpuncher hat held by the brim and flopping with every step. But he wore the silk shirt and the string tie, and somehow he made even the overalls seem "dressy."
"Pray sit down," she said politely.
Standing his crutches against the table, he accepted the invitation. She resumed her sewing, eyes on the needle, lips pressed into a straight line and head bending low. He might have been a stranger on a bench in a public park for all the attention she was paying to him. She realized that she was rude and took satisfaction in it as the only way of expressing her determination not to reopen a closed incident.
"It's wonderful—wonderful!" he observed, in a voice of contemplative awe.