"Bridges can be mended; I was not speaking of the bridge."
"You mean those sheep—"
"No, Mr. Portlaw."
"Well, there's a lot—I mean that some little sand has been washed over your meadow—"
"Good night," she said, turning her horse's head.
"Isn't it the sand, Alida?" he pleaded. "You surely will forgive that timber-cutting—and the shooting of a few migratory birds—"
"Good night," touching her gray mare forward to where he was awkwardly blocking the wood-path.... "Do you mind moving a trifle, Mr. Portlaw?"
"About—ah—the—down there, you know, at Palm Beach," he stammered, "at that accursed lawn-party—"
"Yes?" She smiled but her eyes harboured lightning.
"It was so hot in Florida—you know how infernally hot it was, don't you, Alida?" he asked beseechingly. "I scarcely dared leave the Beach Club."