for the dining-room. From time to time Mrs. Weatherby would lean over and murmur, "Do Too-Too and Lulu want to eat?" at which the two Pomeranians, yapping, would spring into the air to snap at the piece of veal she held on her fork. The candles burned without a flicker in the still hot air and Margharita shuffled in and out noiselessly in felt slippers. It was the same night after night. This was the middle of August and it had been exactly the same every night since the middle of May. On the opposite side of the table Miss Fosdick stared out of her round eyes across the dark valley. The excitement of callers had made her a little seasick, so that she was uncertain whether she could eat or not. She thought, "I shall go insane. I can stand it no longer."
Mrs. Weatherby continued eating the tired lettuce. "You aren't listening, Gertrude. I said we must do something about the dining-room, now that visitors have begun to come."
"We might drive into Brinoë tomorrow."
"Not in this heat. You know how this heat affects you. I shouldn't mind it. If you could only believe as I do, the heat would have no effect upon you."
"Perhaps we'd better leave it until next year. It's so late in the season." (This, Miss Fosdick knew, was what she was meant to say.)
"Yes, next year," echoed Mrs. Weatherby, and then tartly, "You don't seem to take any interest in anything any more."
Next year (thought Miss Fosdick) they would come out here and live in the same dreary fashion.
