In her history
there, had been officers and bankers; even foreign dignitaries; now there
was this sullen young fellow . . . . Burnamy had wondered if it would do
to offer his poem to March, but the presence of the original abashed him,
and in his mind he had torn the poem up, with a heartache for its
aptness.
"I don't believe," he said, "that I recognize-any celebrities here."
"I'm sorry," said March. "Mrs. March would have been glad of some
Hoheits, some Grafs and Grafins, or a few Excellenzes, or even some mere
well-borns. But we must try to get along with the picturesqueness."
"I'm satisfied with the picturesqueness," said his wife. "Don't worry
about me, Mr. Burnamy."
"Why can't we have this sort of thing at home?"
"We're getting something like it in the roof-gardens," said March. "We
couldn't have it naturally because the climate is against it, with us. At
this time in the morning over there, the sun would be burning the life
out of the air, and the flies would be swarming on every table. At nine
A. M. the mosquitoes would be eating us up in such a grove as this. So we
have to use artifice, and lift our Posthof above the fly-line and the
mosquito-line into the night air. I haven't seen a fly since I came to
Europe.
Pages:
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224