Von Gerhard had
promised me a spin in it on the first mild day. Sunday
turned out to be unexpectedly lamblike, as only a March
day can be, with real sunshine that warmed the end of
one's nose instead of laughing as it tweaked it, as the
lying February sunshine had done.
"But warmly you must dress yourself," Von Gerhard
warned me, "with no gauzy blouses or sleeveless gowns.
The air cuts like a knife, but it feels good against the
face. And a little road-house I know, where one is
served great steaming plates of hot oyster stew. How
will that be for a lark, yes?"
And so I had swathed myself in wrappings until I
could scarcely clamber into the panting little car, and
we had darted off along the smooth lake drives, while the
wind whipped the scarlet into our cheeks, even while it
brought the tears to our eyes. There was no chance for
conversation, even if Von Gerhard had been in talkative
mood, which he was not. He seemed more taciturn than
usual, seated there at the wheel, looking straight ahead
at the ribbon of road, his eyes narrowed down to mere
keen blue slits. I realized, without alarm, that he was
driving furiously and lawlessly, and I did not care. Von
Gerhard was that sort of man.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190