It was very, very pretty. . . . But it suddenly seemed hollow. . . . I wondered whether it were always hollow for Mr. Wake. . . . And I thought how nice it would be if pretty Miss Sheila were smiling at him from across the table, and knew, without asking, how many lumps of sugar he would take, and whether his tea should be strong or weak.
“How many loads,” asked Sam as he picked up the sugar spoon.
“Two for me,” I answered.
“None,” said Viola who is afraid of fat.
“Where is Leslie?” asked Mr. Wake who had evidently just noticed her absence.
“In the Boboli gardens,” answered Viola, on a guess that later proved correct.
“Hum—hope she drove over. Aren’t they warning people at the bridges to-day?” he ended, with a questioning look toward Sam who had gone down to the town that morning. (On very hot days sentinels, who stand at the entrance to the bridges, warn people against crossing them, for it is a risk to do this during the middle hours of the day)
“No,” Sam replied, “I wandered over the Ponte Vecchio without a word from any one—”
“The real heat will come soon,” Mr. Wake prophesied. “Think,” he went on, “I’ll go to Switzerland in June.”
“Poor Miss Meek,” I put in, “hates the heat so and has to stay here—”