s I cared to arrange, he would
suggest that we should join Mrs. Drewitt in the garden. She would
welcome news of our American friends. 'I need not ask you,' he added as
we went out through the wall-like people in a dream or a fairy tale, to
be discreet and casual in your conversation with the ladies. My daughter
is away this week visiting an old friend of hers who is married to a
missionary in a neighboring village. She knows the reason for our being
here. My wife does not. It need not be discussed with either of them.'
I should think not!

"And there in the garden was Mrs. Drewitt, a fat little old lady in a
flaming kimono and spectacles. She wears her hair as your Aunt Matilda
does, stuck to her forehead in scrolls. 'Water curls,' I think, is the
technical term. She was holding the head of a dejected marigold while a
native propped it up with a stick. It seemed she remembered my mother,
and we spent a delightful tea-time in a garden which was a part of the
same dream as the phantom wall. Then the old gentleman led me off by
myself and wanted to hear all about Broadway. Whether Oscar was still at
the Waldorf. Whether Fields and Weber made 'a good thing of it' apart.
Then the old lady led me off by myself and wanted to know who was now
the pastor of the Brick Church, and what was Maude Adam's latest play,
and whether skirts were worn long or short in the street.

"'You see this dress,' she said, 'is not really made for a woman of my
age. In fact, in this country all the bright and pretty colors are worn
by the waitresses. Geishas they call them. But Mr. Drewitt always liked
bright colors, and red is very becoming to me.' She was such a wistful,
pathetic, and incongruous little figure that I said something about
hoping that she would soon be in New York again. 'But,' she said, 'Mr.
Drewitt cannot leave his work here. Didn't you know that he is stationed
here to report the changes of the weather to Washington? It is very
important, and we can't go home until he is recalled. And, besides,'"
she went on with a half sob in her voice and a look in her eyes that
made her seem as young as her own daughter, 'and, besides, I would much
rather be here. In New York my husband was too busy. He had so many
calls upon his time, so many people to meet, and so many places to go,
that sometimes I hardly felt as though he belonged to me. But now for
days and weeks at a time we are together. And he has no business
worries. And his salary,