XIX.
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
Unfortunately it was Sunday; therefore the gardeners could not be ordered to shift the long row of flower-pots from the side of the terrace next the house, where Dolly had ordered them to be put, to the side remote from the house, where Dolly now wished them to stand. Yet Dolly could not think of living with the pots where they were till Monday. It would kill her, she said. So Archie left the cool shade of the great trees, where Dolly sat doing nothing, and Nelly Phaeton sat splicing the gig whip, and I lay in a deck-chair, with something iced beside me. Outside the sun was broiling hot, and poor Archie mopped his brow at every weary journey across the broad terrace.
'It's a burnin' shame, Dolly,' said Miss Phaeton. 'I wouldn't do it if I were him.'
'Oh, yes, you would, dear,' said Dolly. 'The pots looked atrocious on that side.'
I took a long sip from my glass, and observed in a meditative tone,—
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