She smiled at him. He does say the quaintest things.
"Nature never is polite. On an afternoon like this the whole world seems to yawn in your face."
"These trees smell like cough drops." This was George.
An artist's mind is always on the beautiful, Phyllis thought. She pulled her skirt down a little, and tried to decide what was the most beautiful thing visible, so she could call his attention to it. She wished she hadn't said that about yawning, she felt one coming on. The hot lunch had made her frightfully drowsy. Across the bay thunderheads were massing and rolling up, deep golden purple. "I wish I could paint," she said. "See those wonderful" But she began the sentence too late; the yawn overtook her in the middle of it.
"Wonderful what?" asked George, looking up. She was struggling with the desire to gape; she trembled with the violence of her effort. George stared.
"Are you ill?"
"Wonderful clouds," she finished savagely. George watched her, adding one more tally to his private conviction that women are mostly mad.
"If you poured heavy cream into a glass of grape
