once--about something that could not be written."

"Well, it's good to have a look at you again. But you are going straight
back, you know. Can't take any chances on such weather as this."

Mr. Thorne sank copiously into a piazza chair, and pulled forward another
for his wife.

She sat on the edge of it, smiling at him with wistful satisfaction. Her
profile had a delicate, bird-like slant. Pale, crisped auburn hair powdered
with gray, hair that looked like burnt-out ashes, she wore swept back from
a small, tense face, full of fine lines and fleeting expressions. She had
taken off her high, close neckwear, and the wanness of her throat showed
above a collarless shirt-waist.

"Don't look at me; I am a wreck!" she implored, with a little exhausted
laugh. "I wonder where my keys are? I must get on something cool before
dinner."

"Ito has all the keys somewhere. Ito's a gentleman. He takes beautiful care
of me, only he won't let me drink as much _shasta_ as I want. What is that?
Iced tea? Bad, bad before dinner! I'm going to watch _you_ now. You are not
looking a bit well. Is there any of that decoction left? Well, it is bad;
gets on the nerves, too much of it. The problem of existence here is, What
shall we drink, and how much of it _can_ we drink?"

Mrs. Thorne laughed out a little sigh. "I have brought you a problem. But
we will talk when it is cooler. Don't you--don't you shave but twice a week
when I am away, Henry?"