The sultry afternoon was very
long--longer even than Berkeley Fresno's autobiography, and quite
as dry. It was too hot and dusty to ride, so she took refuge in
the latest "best seller," and sought out a hammock on the vine-
shaded gallery, where Jean Chapin was writing letters, while the
disconsolate Fresno, banished, wandered at large, vaguely injured
at her lack of appreciation.
Absent-mindedly, the girls dipped into the box of bonbons between
them. Jean finished her correspondence and essayed conversation,
but her companion's blond head was bowed over the book in her
lap, and the effort met with no response. Lulled by the
somniferous droning of insects and lazy echoes from afar, Miss
Chapin was on the verge of slumber, when she saw her guest
rapidly turn the last pages of her novel, then, with a chocolate
between her teeth, read wide-eyed to the finish. Miss Blake
closed the book reluctantly, uncurled slowly, then stared out
through the dancing heat-waves, her blue eyes shadowed with
romance.
"Did she marry him?" queried Jean.
"No, no!" Helen Blake sighed, blissfully.
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