"And yet we
breathe the same air."
"I admit it's strange," said my brother-in-law. "But it was foretold by
my predecessor. I think you'll find the prophecy in _Henry the Fifth_.
'And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best, Neighboured by fruit of
baser quality.' My game, I think. What?"
* * * * *
As was fitting, St. George's Day dawned fair and cloudless. Her
passionate weeping of the day before dismissed, April was smiling--shyly
at first, as if uncertain that her recent waywardness had been forgiven,
and by and by so bravely that all the sweet o' the year rose up out of
the snowy orchards, dewy and odorous, danced in the gleaming meadows and
hung, glowing and breathless, in every swaying nursery that Spring had
once more built upon the patient trees.
The Rolls sailed through the country, proudly indifferent to hill or
dale, melting the leagues to miles with such swift deadliness as made
you sorry for the lean old road that once had been so much to reckon
with.
I was on the point of communicating this Quixotic reflection to Agatha
Deriot, who was seated in front between Jill and myself, when there fell
upon my reluctant ears that heavy sigh which only an expiring tire can
heave.
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