"It's too good for common use. Mrs. Macintosh might stay a fortnight, and he might smash it." ("He" is Peter.)
I ask her what they are doing with themselves, and she says Peter is scrattlin' his feet about on the doorstep like an old hen.
She attacks me with a brush, and I implore her to permit my hair to hang loose to-day. I explain that it is all in a tangle, and perhaps a passing breeze might disentangle it, so saving us much trouble. She regards me severely, and says no breeze will think of knocking about, that it is about 80 degrees in the shade, and that if I wish Mr. Brook to see me, of course—
"Put it up," I cry; "and if you dangle Mr. Brook in front of my eyes once again I will throw something at you."
She tells me to calm myself, and, picking me up, lays me on the couch and trundles me out of the front door.
And here I lie refusing to do anything but gaze at the soft, white, eider-down clouds which seem to be trying to tuck up the blue. Amelia has tried to make me eat. I have refused. Mother has tried to engage me in a conversation about Dimbie—artful mother! I have refused. Peter has tried to draw me into a quarrel. I have still refused. And now they have all gone away and left me. Praised be the gods!
*****
As the shadows began to lengthen upon the lawn I fell asleep, and when I opened my eyes, very slowly, for I did not want to return to a world without Dimbie, I found Dr. Renton sitting at the side of my couch watching me intently. I fancied that he had been there for some time, and I felt vaguely uneasy.
"May I smoke?" was his first question.
"Of course," I said. "Have you been here long?"