He closed the carriage door, and turned to the men, who had been awkwardly watching the performance from a distance.
“Drive on, Tom. Ready now, boys.”
VI
THE morrow was close and sultry. The sun pursued its course through the heavens, round and red like a ball of heated metal. Careful housewives in suburban cottages scrupulously drew in the shutters, pulled the shades, and closed the windows against the fierce heat. Thus they produced the musty coolness of the tomb, in which they existed languidly until late afternoon. Then easterly windows were opened, admitting fresh air.
On the eastern piazza of the Simmons house, as the sun sank, there appeared two people. Mrs. Simmons moved here and there restlessly, her face pale with the heat of the day, dark circles beneath her blue eyes. She looped up the wilted tendrils of the climbing vine, patting the belated blossoms with her soft, plump hands. Behind her in the shade of the long house Dr. Vessinger lounged on a chair, smoking a cigarette.
“Evelyn!”
The doctor’s low voice just reached to her. She started and turned her face to him. He was a slight man, with an active, well-proportioned body. How much he had done for himself since those far-off days when she had first known him! He was Some One now; she had a vague movement of pride that she had held his fancy all these years.
“You knew I should be out to-day?” he questioned, following her with his intelligent eyes.