"Walked! Is it possible?" cried Mrs. Loftus, while her daughter raised her eyebrows and regarded Hildegarde with languid curiosity. "My dear, you must be terribly heated. Let me ring for some Florida water. No, I insist!" as Hildegarde made a gesture of protest. "It is so dangerous to walk in the heat of the day. The brain, you know, becomes heated, and it does something to the spinal marrow. Do you feel any dizziness? Really, the best thing would be for you to lie down at once for half an hour. I will darken the room, and—"
"Nonsense, mamma!" said Miss Loftus, "I don't believe Miss Grahame wants to lie down."
"Oh, no, indeed!" cried Hildegarde, thankful for the interruption. "I am used to walking, you know, Mrs. Loftus. I always walk, everywhere. I like it very much better than driving; besides," she added, "we have no horses, so I should have to walk in any case."
"I think it so dangerous!" said Mrs. Loftus, with a compassionate shake of the head. "In the heat of the day, as I said, the spinal marrow; so important, my dear! and towards evening there is a chill in the air, malaria, all kinds of dreadful things. I shall make a point of picking you up whenever I am driving by—I drive by nearly every day—and taking you out."
"Oh—thank you!" cried poor Hildegarde, an abyss opening at her feet. "You are very kind, but I could not! I am so busy—and walking is my delight."
The announcement of lunch created a diversion, to the great relief of our heroine. Mr. Loftus appeared, a small, shrivelled man, with sharp eyes, whose idea of making himself agreeable was to criticise each article of food as it came on the table.
"Very weak bouillon, Mrs. Loftus" (he called it "bullion"). "Very weak! greasy, too! Not fit to put on the table. What's this? chicken? Fowl, I should say! Rooster, Mrs. L.! Is this your twelve-dollar cook? Not a thing Miss Grahame can eat! She'll go and tell old Ferrers how we gave her roast rooster, see if she don't! I hear you're very thick with old Ferrers, Miss Grahame. Old Grizzly Bruin, I call him. Good name, too! he! he!"
Hildegarde blushed scarlet, and wondered what her mother would say in her place. All she could do was to murmur that the chicken was very nice indeed, and to hope that she did not show more of her disgust than was proper. The luncheon was very fine, in spite of Mr. Loftus's depreciation; and when it came to the dessert, he changed his tune, and descanted on the qualities of "my peaches," "my nectarines," and "my gardener."
"You don't eat enough, Miss Grahame!" was his comment. "No need to stint yourself here; plenty for all, and more where that came from."
But here Miss Loftus came to the rescue, and with a "Don't be tiresome, puppa!" changed the conversation, and began to talk of the Worth gowns she had seen in New York, on her last visit.