Mr. Bruce—the gentleman who, some years before, wore a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass—had recently returned from Europe, and, glorifying in the renown acquired from a moustache, a French tailor, and the possession of a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with more complacency than ever.
"So you've been in Boston all day, Miss Flint?"
"Yes, nearly all day."
"Didn't you find it distressingly warm?"
"Somewhat so."
"I tried to go in to attend to some business that mother was anxious about, and even went down to the depot; but I had to give it up."
"Were you overpowered by the heat?"
"I was."
"How unfortunate!" remarked Gertrude, in a half-compassionate, half-ironical tone of voice.
Mr. Bruce looked up, to judge from her countenance whether she were serious or not; but there being little light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he could not decide the question, and therefore replied, "I dislike the heat, Miss Gertrude, and why should I expose myself to it unnecessarily?"