“I’ve heard of washed-out dresses,” remarked Oliver. “They look like rags, don’t they?”
“Some may. Mine won’t. It has washed like a pocket-handkerchief, and it looks as good as new.”
“Wish my coats would wash,” said Oliver. “They are getting shabby, and I want some new ones.”
Not having any consolation to administer in regard to the coats, Jane did not take up the subject. “What have you been doing all day, Oliver?” she asked.
“Airing my patience in that blessed Buttery,” replied he. “Never stirred out of it at all, except for dinner.”
“I thought you wanted to get over to Islip this afternoon.”
“I might want to get over to the North Pole, and be none the nearer to it. MacEveril was bound for some place a mile or two across fields this afternoon, on business for the office, and I promised to go over to walk with him. Promises, though, are like pie-crust, Janey: made to be broken.”
Jane nodded assent. “And a promise which you are obliged to break is sure to be one you particularly want to keep. I wish I had a pair of new gloves, Oliver. Pale grey.”
“I wish I had half-a-dozen new pairs, for the matter of that. Just look at those little minnows, leaping in the water. How pretty they are!”
He went to the edge of the brook and stood looking down at the small fry. Jane followed. Then they walked about in the Inlets, then sat down again and watched the sunset; and so the evening wore away until they went home.