Its expanse of veranda,
its fluttering green and white awnings, its giant tubs of blossoming
hydrangeas, to say nothing of its Italian garden with rose-laden
pergolas, were as out of place as if Saint Peter's itself had been
dropped down into a tiny New England fishing hamlet.
The house, it is true, did not lack beauty, for it was well
proportioned and gracefully planned, and there was no denying that one
found, perhaps, more comfort on its screened and shaded piazzas than
was to be enjoyed on Willie Spence's unprotected doorstep.
Nevertheless, there was too much of everything about it: too many
rambler roses, too many rustic baskets and mighty palms; too many urns,
and stone benches, and sundials and fountains. Still, as the car
stopped at the door, the great wicker chairs with their scarlet
cushions presented a gay picture and so, too, did Mrs. Galbraith and
Cynthia who immediately rose from a breezy corner and came forward.
The older woman was tall and handsome and in her youth must have
possessed great beauty; even now she carried with a spoiled air almost
girlish the costly gowns and jewels that her husband, proud of her
looks, lavished upon her.
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