The Light Heart by Elswyth Thane

Author:Elswyth Thane [Elswyth Thane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780719813429
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2013-11-11T16:00:00+00:00

4

THE next day was hot and sultry. Directly after lunch, when Countess Malvida was looking thoroughly wilted and admitted to a headache, and Conrad had retired to his study with Gerzlow and the Lieutenant, Rosalind suddenly ordered round a carriage to take Phoebe and herself for a drive in the woods, where the wild flowers were in bloom. Malvida was firmly bidden to go and lie down with eau de cologne on her handkerchief, and the other two, both dressed in white with wide hats and parasols, set out together in barely concealed elation.

Rosalind said she still thought a carriage was nicer than a motor car if you just wanted to see things and not to arrive anywhere, and Phoebe, whose life in New York had become almost entirely motorized, agreed with her that an open landau was the last word in comfort and style. “Makes you feel like a queen,” Phoebe said as they rolled away from the Schloss along one of the swept, curving avenues which led into the deep pine forest. “As though you ought to bow right and left to the populace.” And then she realized by a fleeting expression on Rosalind’s face that if you were a Serene Highness you did bow right and left to the populace, and there was a pause.

“I thoroughly enjoyed myself last evening,” she said then, to break it. “I think your Conny is altogether charming, and not a bit what I expected. He unbent most gracefully, and his voice is excellent.”

“He likes you,” said Rosalind. “That makes all the difference. He was afraid you might be some kind of bluestocking, and was prepared to loathe you.”

“Well, I thought he was a brute, and was fixing to hate him,” Phoebe confessed. “Really, Rosalind, you’ve hardly done him justice all these years, and you never told me he could sing.”

“He has to be in the mood,” said Rosalind rather briefly. “We’re too soon for the wild strawberries, I’m afraid—but you’ll still be here when they’re ripe, and we have them almost every day. This heat will do wonders, if only we don’t get a cold rain to follow.”

“But the Gerzlow boy I could do without,” Phoebe continued, ignoring the weather, and realized by another fleeting expression on Rosalind’s face that one must remember the two liveried men on the box, who might overhear, and the conversation at once became excessively botanical.

By the time they reached the cool depths of the forest where the fragrant boughs nearly met overhead and there was the scent of warm pine needles, Phoebe felt she couldn’t stand it any longer and said in a lowered voice, “Can’t we get out and walk a little way—so we can talk?”

“There’s a place farther on with a bench,” Rosalind promised, and when they came to where a tidy path led away to the left, too narrow for the carriage, she spoke to the coachman and they did step down and walk away from the landau, preceded by the footman,

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