“Mon pauvre Arrigo Beyle!” said Jim’s mother, with a little blush of pleasure that was really very becoming.
There was a perceptible movement in the wooden structure. A form, divinely tall and divinely fair, appeared upon the grass plot. It was accompanied by a stalwart, velvet-coated cavalier.
“A short interval for strawberries and cream,” said Jim.
“Most rational, my dear Lascelles,” said the lazily musical voice of his patron from the depths of his wicker chair, “and most proper. As I was observing to your accomplished mother, the great things of art require an atmosphere of natural and spontaneous gladness in which to get themselves created. Strawberries and cream, by all means. Do not spare that national delicacy if you wish to get a final and consummate glow upon your masterpiece.”
The attention of Miss Perry was wholly diverted by the rich display of the national delicacy in question upon the tea-table.
“Aren’t they beauties?” said she, in thrilling tones. “I am sure Muffin has picked the largest in the garden; and when I wrote to her, I specially told her not to.”
“Among the select but ever-widening circle of persons,” said Cheriton, “whom I desire to meet in the Elysian Fields, my dear Miss Goose, is your sister, Muffin.”
“She is too sweet,” said Miss Perry. “Aren’t they beauties? I am sure you would like her so much.”
After some liberal and copious refreshment—the afternoon was indeed very hot—Miss Perry and Jim Lascelles returned to the service of art. Jim’s mother was prevailed upon to open the little rosewood piano. This time she played Brahms. Her touch, in the opinion of her listener, was deliciously sensitive. She promised to accompany him on the Friday following to the Opera to hear Calve in La Bohème. They discussed the theaters, and waxed enthusiastic over the artless witchery of Duse as Mirandola.
“And soon, my dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said Cheriton, with his paternal air, “I suppose you will be off to the sea.”