OF A SENTIMENTAL NATURE
She was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching-block and camp-stool.
"Good evening," I said.
"Good evening," said she.
It is curious how different the same words can sound, when spoken by different people. My "good evening" might have been that of a man with a particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing something more than usually ignoble. She spoke like a rather offended angel.
"It's a lovely evening," I went on pluckily.
"Very."
"The sunset!"
"Yes."
"Er—"