CHAPTER XXXVII
THE WOES OF MR. BRIMBERLY
Mr. Brimberly, having dined well as was his custom, lay at his ease in a luxurious lounge chair in the shade of the piazza; the day was hot, wherefore on a table at his elbow was a syphon, a bottle, and a long glass in which ice tinkled alluringly; between his plump fingers was a large cigar and across his plump knees was an open paper over which he yawned and puffed and sipped in turn. Nevertheless Mr. Brimberly was bored and dropping the paper, languidly cherished a languorous whisker, staring dull-eyed across stately terraces and wide, neat lawns to where, beyond winding yew walks and noble trees, the distant river flowed.
Presently as he sat he was aware of a small girl in a white pinafore approaching along one of these walks—a small being who hopped along by means of a little crutch and sang to herself in a soft, happy voice.
Mr. Brimberly blinked.
Heedless of the eyes that watched her, the child turned into the rose garden, pausing now and then to inhale the scent of some great bloom that filled the air with its sweetness.
Mr. Brimberly sat up, for he permitted few to enter the rose garden.
All at once the child, singing still, reached up and broke off a great scarlet bloom.
Mr. Brimberly arose.