we had to draw the line.
The others called them "bessen," pulling the red beads off their stems
with a fork, and sprinkling them with sugar, but my blood curdled at the
sight of this dreadful fruit, and my mouth crinkled up inside.

Although we sat down at six, it was after eight when we rose, and as the
windows were shut, the room was suffocating. Everybody looked flushed,
and I dared not hope, after excluding the air for so long, that we
should be allowed a breath of it later. But Cousin Cornelia, as a matter
of course, led the way into the garden-room, where lamps, shaded with
rose-colored silk, had now been lighted on two of the book-and
magazine-strewn tables.

The strong air of the sea blew blessedly upon us, seeming cold after the
heat of the dining-room, but Cousin Cornelia did not even wrap a shawl
about her shoulders. We were _out-of-doors_ now, and it was right to
have air, so you took it for granted, and did not suffer. But indoors,
what were windows for if you did not keep them closed? It seemed a waste
of good material, and therefore a tempting of Providence to take
revenge by sending you bronchitis or rheumatism.

It was exquisite in the garden-room. Sea and sky mingled in a haze of
tender blue. All the air was blue, spangled with the lights of the pier;
and our lamps, and the shaded lamps of other garden-rooms, glowed in the
azure dusk like burning flowers, roses, and daffodils, and tulips.

We had coffee in cups small and delicate as egg-shells, and the old
silver spoons were spoons for dolls or fairies.

Robert asked if we would like to go to the circus, which could not, he
said, be surpassed in Europe; or to a classical concert at the Kurhaus:
but we were contented in the garden-room, with the music of the sea. We
talked of many things, and if Robert is deficient in a knowledge of
history, the others make up for his ignorance. They know something of
everything; and even the apple-blossom twins could put Phyllis and me to
shame, if they were not too polite, on the subject of modern musicians
and painters.

They speak French, German, and Italian, as well as English: a smattering
of Spanish too; yet they said modestly, when we exclaimed at their
accomplishments, that it was nothing; hardly anybody would learn Dutch,
so the Dutch must learn the languages of other nations.

As for Freule Menela (I must not call her "Miss," it seems, because
"Freule" is a kind of title) she is the cleverest of all,