CHAPTER XXXVII“Tell me about it!” Butterfly commanded, cheerfully.
She flung out her arm to give a basket-chair beside her an inviting touch, and Craig took it thankfully. One of April’s treacherously hot and enervating days had fallen upon the city; the long morning hours had passed in shining glory over the unprepared restaurants and theatres and shops, suddenly lowered awnings had been unfurled like an army with banners, to meet the glare, and open motor-cars waited outside the hotels.
Dora was on a second-story porch at the southwestern side of the old mansion, a porch where several potted ferns and a miniature feathery bamboo shared the wicker chairs under a gay awning. Below her was the privacy of her own and a few other conservative old backyards, where collies tramped and yawned,
