Unfortunately it was Sunday; therefore the gardeners could not be
ordered to shift the long row of flower pots from the side of the
terrace next the house, where Dolly had ordered them to be put, to the
side remote from the house, where Dolly now wished them to stand. Yet
Dolly could not think of living with the pots where they were till
Monday. It would kill her, she said. So Archie left the cool shade of
the great trees, where Dolly sat doing nothing, and Nellie Phaeton sat
splicing the gig whip, and I lay in a deck chair with something iced
beside me. Outside the sun was broiling hot and poor Archie mopped his
brow at every weary journey across the broad terrace.
“It’s a burning’ shame, Dolly,” said Miss Phaeton. “I wouldn’t do it if
I were him.”
“Oh, yes, you would, dear,” said Dolly. “The pots looked atrocious on
that side.”