mean bad temper. She refused the custard. She wanted a peach, but felt that the effort of peeling it was too much. Soft fuzzy skin and wet fingers. Then George, with that occasional insight that always surprised her, passed her one peeled and sliced.
"Yes," he said, "we ought to have a bathe, unless there's a storm. Relieve the pressure on the bathroom."
"Then we'll all be nice and clean for the Picnic," exclaimed the children.
"Miss Clyde is coming," George continued. "She's an artist too, perhaps Mr. Martin knows her."
"Bring the jug of iced tea in the garden, let's finish it out there," said Phyllis. "It's stifling here.—Children, you go and get your naps."
The little table was under the pine trees, the other side of the croquet oval. The grove smelt warm and slippery. Now there are the long hours of the afternoon to be lived through, somehow. George sprawled himself on the brown needles, the smoke of his pipe drifted past her in a blue whiff. Mr. Martin put a chair for her.
"I love these pine trees," she said. "They're always whispering."
"It isn't polite to whisper."
