Southers
2009-08-27 16:54:55 UTC
Ing their sword-hilts, they moved between the tables with the gait of
tight-laced women. "They all wear corsets," Burnamy explained. "How much
you know already!" said Mrs. March. "I can see that Europe won't be lost
on you in anything. Oh, who's that?" A lady whose costume expressed
saris at every point glided up the middle aisle of the grove with a
graceful tilt. Burnamy was silent. "She must be an American. Do you know
who she is?" "Yes." He hesitated, a little to name a woman whose tragedy
had once filled the newspapers. Mrs. March gazed after her with the
fascination which such tragedies inspire. "What grace! Is she
beautiful?" "Very." Burnamy had not obtruded his knowledge, but somehow
Mrs. March did not like his knowing who she was, and how beautiful. She
asked March to look, but he refused. "Those things are too squalid," he
said, and she liked him for saying it; she hoped it would not be lost
upon Burnamy. One of the waitresses tripped on the steps near them and
flung the burden off her tray on the stone floor before her; some of the
dishes broke, and the breakfast was lost. Tears came into the girl's
eyes and rolled down her hot cheeks. "There! That is what I call
tragedy," said March. "She'll have to pay for those things." "Oh, give
her the money, dearest!" "How can I?" The girl had just got away with
the ruin when Lili and her hireling behind her came bearing down upon
them with their three substantial breakfasts on two well-laden trays.
She forestalled Burnamy's reproaches for her delay, laughing and
bridling, while she set down the dishes of ham and tongue and egg, and
the little pots of coffee and frothed milk. "I could not so soon I
wanted, because I was to serve an American princess." Mrs. March started
with proud conjecture of one of those noble international
tight-laced women. "They all wear corsets," Burnamy explained. "How much
you know already!" said Mrs. March. "I can see that Europe won't be lost
on you in anything. Oh, who's that?" A lady whose costume expressed
saris at every point glided up the middle aisle of the grove with a
graceful tilt. Burnamy was silent. "She must be an American. Do you know
who she is?" "Yes." He hesitated, a little to name a woman whose tragedy
had once filled the newspapers. Mrs. March gazed after her with the
fascination which such tragedies inspire. "What grace! Is she
beautiful?" "Very." Burnamy had not obtruded his knowledge, but somehow
Mrs. March did not like his knowing who she was, and how beautiful. She
asked March to look, but he refused. "Those things are too squalid," he
said, and she liked him for saying it; she hoped it would not be lost
upon Burnamy. One of the waitresses tripped on the steps near them and
flung the burden off her tray on the stone floor before her; some of the
dishes broke, and the breakfast was lost. Tears came into the girl's
eyes and rolled down her hot cheeks. "There! That is what I call
tragedy," said March. "She'll have to pay for those things." "Oh, give
her the money, dearest!" "How can I?" The girl had just got away with
the ruin when Lili and her hireling behind her came bearing down upon
them with their three substantial breakfasts on two well-laden trays.
She forestalled Burnamy's reproaches for her delay, laughing and
bridling, while she set down the dishes of ham and tongue and egg, and
the little pots of coffee and frothed milk. "I could not so soon I
wanted, because I was to serve an American princess." Mrs. March started
with proud conjecture of one of those noble international