Miss Terry’s realistic description of her bearer’s appearance, which was, to say the least of it, limp and moist, was no exaggeration. But then she herself, as Arthur well remembered, was no feather-weight, especially when, as in the present case, she had to be carted up the side of a nearly perpendicular hill some miles long, a fact very well exemplified by the condition of the bearer.
“My dear Agatha,” replied Mildred, laughing, “what is to be done? Of course the man is hot, you are not a feather-weight; but what is to be done?”
“I don’t know, but I won’t go on with him, it’s simply disgusting; he might let himself out as a watering-cart.”
“But we can’t get another here.”
“Then he must cool himself, the others might come and fan him. I won’t go on till he is cool, and that’s flat.”
“He will take hours to cool, and meanwhile we are broiling on this hot road. You really must come on, Agatha.”
“I have it,” said Arthur. “Miss Terry must turn herself round with her head towards the back of the hammock, and then she won’t see him.”
To this arrangement the aggrieved lady was after some difficulty persuaded to accede, and the procession started again.
Their destination reached, they picnicked as they had arranged, and then separated, the bride and bridegroom strolling off in one direction, and Mildred and Arthur in another, whilst Miss Terry mounted guard over the plates and dishes.
Presently Arthur and Mildred came to a little English-looking grove of pine and oak, that extended down a gentle slope and was bordered by a steep bank, at the foot of which great ferns and beautiful Madeira flowers twined themselves into a shelter from the heat. Here they sat down and gazed at the splendid and many-tinted view set in its background of emerald ocean.