She tapped her sunglasses on the knee of her print dress like a proprietor of the earth, the entrepreneur of June, a lady creator pleased by her creation. The lush, knee-high cornfields and the pastures piled up to a green horizon looked exactly like the work of her Arcadian good humor. The sky with its little pony herd of clouds was nothing less than a tribute to her taste. All the exurban domiciles around, passing themselves off as farmhouses, seemed to her a joke worthy of the old Leslie. Let it be known she was here among oxygen and foliage to hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Yet, in all humility, she thought this might be an occasion too good to waste on just herself. She was genuinely though resignedly sorry that old Ben had to miss this, just by going to Venezuela, where he was sure to be appreciated less. She wrinkled her nose at Dolores, who had ridden out from town with her in the station wagon, and knew that Dolores shared some of her mood. But all joy seeks its maximum, and she wished she had Ben there (oh, just for this moment of arrival; things would get dull if you gave them time) instead of merely a jolly friend.
