The next day began for Campaspe about one o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was high and bright, but the atmosphere was refreshingly cool; it was one of those charming days with a gentle sea breeze which alternate with sultry, humid weather in any New York summer. Campaspe sipped her coffee in bed, and glanced over her mail. There were letters from her two boys who were passing the summer with their grandfather at Southampton. These she opened first. Esme had caught a blue-fish and Basil wanted a cowboy's suit with chaps, a red-flannel shirt, a sombrero, and a lariat. Both of them desired to see their mother. Wasn't she coming down? She tapped an envelope against her open lips as she thought of her sons. Campaspe loved her children, and occasionally she had them with her. It was constitutional of her, however, to believe that she was only doing her best for others when she entirely pleased herself. She had decided, quite wisely, events had proved, not to leave New York again this summer. In the fall she would see the boys before she went to Europe and they were sent to boarding-school. It was
