“But I have asked you; that is reason enough.”
“It’s so hot!” cried Goneril.
“That is why I object to your walking.”
“But if it’s so hot for me, just think how hot is must be for the horse.”
Goneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor, halting, wheezing nag.
“The horse, probably,” rejoined Miss Hamelyn, “does not suffer from malaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the middle heat of the summer.”
“True!” said Goneril. Then, after a few minutes, “I’ll get in, Aunt Margaret, on one condition.”
“In my time young people did not make conditions.”
“Very well, auntie; I’ll get in, and you shall answer all my questions when you feel inclined.”
The carriage stopped. The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl seated herself beside Miss Hamelyn. Then for a few minutes they drove on in silence past the orchards; past the olive-yards, yellow underneath the ripening corn; past the sudden wide views of the mountains, faintly crimson in the mist of heat, and, on the other side, of Florence, the towers and domes steaming beside the hazy river.