Page:My Dear Cornelia (1924).pdf/122

 gold head leaning against the gray trunk, and with one hand, lying listlessly across her knee, holding her soft white hat. If I were not afraid of being called bookish and pedantic, I should admit that as I approached she reminded me of Ariadne in Naxos; as it is, I content myself with remarking that she seemed a little languid. She did not rise.

I observed the point, because listlessness is not her "note."

"I hoped you would come," she said.

"It's a lovely morning, isn't it," I exclaimed, in a sudden awareness of the truth of what I was saying.

"No, it isn't a lovely morning," she replied. "It's a horrid morning. Come and sit down. I want to be comforted." Looking into her cool gray eyes, I saw that I had been mistaken. It wasn't a lovely morning; there was a cloud in the sky.

"You, comforted?" I said incredulously, and seated myself at the other end of the bench, for I felt my hopeless inexperience with Ariadnes. "I thought you were always happy. Where is Oliver? I heard he came Friday night, but I haven't seen hoof or horn of him."

Cornelia looked out for a moment silently over