It Was No Place For House-Parties, And Scarcely For
Week-End Visits, Or Even For Neighborhood Dinners.
Perhaps on that
terrace there was afternoon ice-cream or chocolate for friends who rode
or drove over or out; it seemed so possible that we had to check in
ourselves the cozy impulse to pull up our shell-covered cement chairs to
some central table of like composition.
Within, the villa was of a spick-and-spanness which I feel that I have
not adequately suggested; and may I say that the spray of a garden-hose
seemed all that would be needed to put the place in readiness for
occupation? Not that even this was needed for that interior of tile and
marble, so absolutely apt for the climate and the use the place would be
put to. In vain we conjectured, and I hope not impertinently, the
characters and tastes of the absentees; the sole clue that offered
itself was a bookshelf of some Spanish versions from authors scientific
and metaphysical to the verge of agnosticism. I would not swear to
Huxley and Herbert Spencer among the English writers, but they were such
as these, not in their entire bulk, but in extracts and special essays.
I recall the slightly tilted row of the neat paper copies; and I wish I
knew who it was liked to read them. The Spanish have a fondness for such
dangerous ground; from some of their novels it appears they feel it
rather chic to venture on it.
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