“Oh! isn’t it?” she said. “I never knew such heat in May. You must feel it terribly, Mr. Butterfield.”
Now, I am not so stout as all that. Thirteen four, for a bachelor approaching forty, and of personable height, is no extravagant riot of flesh.
“I admit to a certain warmth,” I replied; “but when your own, permit me to say, somewhat meagre presence has ripened to a more generous noontide, perhaps you will resent any ostentatious sympathy on the subject.”
Mrs. Loring laughed. She always refused to take my dignity seriously. To her I am not Rollo Butterfield, LL.D. (ceased to practise), but Mr. Butterfield, who may be allowed to see the children in bed, should he wish it, and who is sacrificed on the altar of intimacy to take in to dinner nervous schoolgirls, and act as escort and general convenience in shopping expeditions.
“Well,” said Mrs. Loring, “I don’t think you ought to mind at your time of life. Let me see, how much older than Loring are you?”
“Mrs. Loring Chatterton, perhaps you prefer to walk to Wilton Place alone?”
“It must be rather hard on you,” said this incorrigible lady, laughing.
I looked at the sunshade and at the glare that shone mercilessly on my patent leathers. Decision of action was never my strong point, and the firmest principles will soften at ninety-two in the shade. I capitulated. Compromise beneath a parasol was better than dignity in the sun.
We walked along. By the exercise of much ingenuity in mapping out a track that should consist of the maximum of shade, by the strategic use of large vans and the skirting of a person with a huge umbrella, whose shadow was as that of a great rock in a thirsty land, we arrived at Wilton Place, and, in response to Mrs. Loring’s invitation to come and have tea, I followed her in.
Mrs. Loring’s drawing-room was cool as a cloister. I foundered on to a sofa and closed my eyes, while my hostess, as a last impertinence, vapourised me in passing with a tiny scent fountain, and left me in a luxury of dim light.