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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
48
But
what
dreariness
can
equal
the
dreariness
of
a
cold
gale
at
midsummer?
I
have
been
chilly
and
dejected
all
day,
shut
up
behind
the
streaming
window-panes,
and
not
liking
to
have
a
fire
because
of
its
dissipated
appearance
in
the
scorching
intervals
of
sunshine.
Once
or
twice
my
hand
was
on
the
bell
and
I
was
going
to
order
one,
when
out
came
the
sun
and
it
was
June
again,
and
I
ran
joyfully
into
the
dripping,
gleaming
garden,
only
to
be
driven
in
five
minutes
later
by
a
yet
fiercer
squall.
I
wandered
disconsolately
round
my
pillar
of
books,
looking
for
the
one
that
would
lend
itself
best
to
the
task
of
entertaining
me
under
the
prevailing
conditions,
but
they
all
looked
gloomy,
and
reserved,
and
forbidding.
So
I
sat
down
in
a
very
big
chair,
and
reflected
that
if
there
were
to
be
many
days
like
this
it
might
be
as
well
to
ask
somebody
cheerful
to
come
and
sit
opposite
me
in
all
those
other
big
chairs
that
were
looking
so
unusually
gigantic
and
empty.
When
the
Man
of
Wrath
came
in
to
tea
there
were
such
heavy
clouds
that
the
room
was
quite
dark,
and
he
peered
about
for
a
moment
before
he
saw
me.
I
suppose
in
the
gloom
of
the
big
room
I
must
have
looked
rather
lonely,
and
smaller
than
usual
buried
in
the
capacious
chair,
for
when
he
finally
discovered
me
his
face
widened
into
an
inappropriately
cheerful
smile.
"Well,
my
dear,"
he
said
genially,
"how
very
cold
it
is."
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