Her eyes brightened, and she bent over the flowers to breathe in their incense.
“But I mustn’t keep them all for myself,” she added.
“Oh, we are equally well treated,” said Mrs. Hart, flourishing a knot of Jacqueminot roses.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Berle joined in, pointing to a table, the marble top of which was hidden beneath a wealth of variegated blossoms.
“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. And she went on picking her bouquet to pieces. Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Berle received their shares; Hetzel his; and then, turning to Arthur, “Maintenant, monsieur” she said, with a touch of coquetry, “maintenant à votre tour.” She fastened a spray of jasmine to the lappel of his coat. In doing so, a delicate whiff of perfume was wafted upward from her hair. Whether it possessed some peculiar elixir-like quality, or not, I can not tell; but at that instant Arthur felt a thrill pierce to the very innermost of his heart.
“It is so warm,” said Mrs. Berle, “I thought it would be pleasant to take supper out of doors. If you are agreeable, we will go down to the backyard.”
In the back-yard the table was set beneath a blossoming peach-tree. The grass plot made an unexceptionable carpet. Honeysuckle vines clambered over the fence. The river glowed warmly in the light of the declining sun. The country beyond on Long Island lay smiling at the first persuasive touch of summer—of the summer that, ere long waxing fiercely ardent, was to scorch and consume it.
Mrs. Lehmyl looked around, with child-like happiness shining in her eyes. Arthur looked at her.
“Permit me to make you acquainted with my brother, Mr. Lipman,” said the hostess.
Mr. Lipman had a head that the Wandering Jew might have been proud of; snow-white hair and beard, olive skin, regular features of the finest Oriental type, and deep-set, coal-black eyes, with an expression in them—an anxious, eager, hopelessly hopeful expression—that told the whole story of the travail and sorrow of his race. He kissed the hands of the ladies and shook those of the gentlemen.