Ambrose mopped his brow with his handkerchief and sighed.
I do not think, he assured himself, that the story of Emma Flummerfelt would make a suitable scenario for a moving picture.
At this moment he became aware that he was no longer alone. A ponderous figure in white was careening towards him down the flagged walk.
Good morning, she called out as she approached.
Good morning, Mrs. Starling, he responded, thinking at the same time how much this ridiculous woman in her white dress resembled Emma Flummerfelt in her Mother Hubbard. At any rate he felt at home with her. She was his kind.
You're up early, she panted, fatigued by even this minimum of exertion.
I was admiring the flowers, he said.
Mrs. Starling sank to an adjacent bench and beckoned him to join her. I ain't so spry as I used to be, she confessed. I reckon it's my heart and all. 'Tain't so good any more. This is my garden. Imperia can't abide it. She likes orchids and suchlike posies. The palms seem to belong more to her. Why, sometimes on the train runnin' through the desert she goes wild over the tumbleweed and organ cactus, but she don't
