Harkless relapsed into silence.
Meredith's home was a few blocks further up the same street; a capacious house in the Western fashion of the Seventies.

In front, on the lawn, there was a fountain with a leaping play of water; maples and shrubbery were everywhere; and here and there stood a stiff sentinel of Lombardy poplar.

It was all cool and incongruous and comfortable; and, on the porch, sheltered from publicity by a multitude of palms and flowering plants, a white-jacketed negro appeared with a noble smile and a more important tray, whereon tinkled bedewed glasses and a crystal pitcher, against whose sides the ice clinked sweetly.

There was a complement of straws.
When they had helped him to an easy chair on the porch, Harkless whistled luxuriously.

"Ah, my bachelor!" he exclaimed, as he selected a straw.
"'Who would fardels bear ?'" rejoined Mr.Meredith.Then came to the other a recollection of an auburn-haired ball player on whom the third strike had once been called while his eyes wandered tenderly to the grandstand, where the prettiest girl of that commencement week was sitting.
"Have you forgot the 'Indian Princess' ?" he asked.
"You're a dull old person," Tom laughed.