Mr.
Wentworth had to be interviewed.

It was one of those hot days in May.
The servant at the door said that Mr.Wentworth was in the back yard--he called it the garden--where I soon found myself.

You had a small table, a glass and a pitcher.

I suppose every time your uncle got thirsty you sold him a glass.

You wore short dresses--" "Terrible!" cried Phyllis, shielding her face with the hand-screen.
"And looked as cool as the ice in the pitcher, and as fresh as the flowers which lined the walls.