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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
101
If
an
officious
friend
had
stood
in
that
breathless
couple's
path
and
told
them
in
glowing
terms
how
much
happier
they
would
be
if
they
lived
their
life
a
little
more
fully
and
from
its
other
sides,
how
much
more
delightful
to
stride
along
gaily
together
in
their
walks,
with
wind
enough
for
talk
and
laughter,
how
pleasant
if
the
man
were
muscular
and
in
good
condition
and
the
woman
brisk
and
wiry,
and
that
they
only
had
to
do
as
he
did
and
live
on
cold
meat
and
toast,
and
drink
nothing,
to
be
as
blithe
as
birds,
do
you
think
they
would
have
so
much
as
understood
him?
Cold
meat
and
toast?
Instead
of
what
they
had
just
been
enjoying
so
intensely?
Miss
that
soup
made
of
the
inner
mysteries
of
geese,
those
eels
stewed
in
beer,
the
roast
pig
with
red
cabbage,
the
venison
basted
with
sour
cream
and
served
with
beans
in
vinegar
and
cranberry
jam,
the
piled-up
masses
of
vanilla
ice,
the
pumpernickel
and
cheese,
the
apples
and
pears
on
the
top
of
that,
and
the
big
cups
of
coffee
and
cakes
on
the
top
of
the
apples
and
pears?
Really
a
quick
walk
over
the
heather
with
a
wiry
wife
would
hardly
make
up
for
the
loss
of
such
a
dinner;
and
besides,
might
not
a
wiry
wife
turn
out
to
be
a
questionable
blessing?
And
so
they
would
pity
the
nimble
friend
who
wasted
his
life
in
taking
exercise
and
missed
all
its
pleasures,
and
the
man
of
toast
and
early
rising
would
regard
them
with
profound
disgust
if
simple
enough
to
think
himself
better
than
they,
and,
if
he
possessed
an
open
mind,
would
merely
return
their
pity
with
more
of
his
own;
so
that,
I
suppose,
everybody
would
be
pleased,
for
the
charm
of
pitying
one's
neighbour,
though
subtle,
is
undeniable.
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