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Updated: May 26, 2025
Since dinner is over dinner at the godless hour of half-past four I suppose we must call it evening. Sir Roger and I are driving out in an open carriage beyond the town, across the Elbe, up the shady road to Weisserhoisch. The calm of coming night is falling with silky softness upon every thing.
"I wish you would not remind me of that," say I, reddening. It was quite the broadest hint any one ever gave. The evening is deepening. We have reached Weisserhoisch. Now our faces are turned homeward again.
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