little bungalow garden was ablaze with roses, dahlias, poppies, asters, strange voluptuous flowers whose names she did not know. The roses, plucked and placed in water, fell apart, petal by petal, two hours afterward. From her veranda she saw the Sierra Madre range and the foothills. She thought of her “unexcelled view of Park” which could be had by flattening one ear and the side of your face against the window jamb.

The sun came up, hard and bright and white, day after day. Hard and white and hot and dry. “Like a woman,” Harrietta thought, “who wears a red satin gown all the time. You’d wish she’d put on gingham just once, for a change.” She told herself that she was parched for a walk up Riverside Drive in a misty summer rain, the water sloshing in her shoes.