If it looked like a good long rain, Jan would set the basket inside the door and fly back out and down to the summerhouse under the big splashing drops before anyone had time to say come back or take your sweater, and there she would sit the whole of the afternoon in the unaccustomed dark, looking through the ancient magazines the Misses Allison had stored there from Time Immemorial, listening to the rain drum on the roof and hearing it dripping more slowly in the corners of the room where the roof leaked. There she would sit with her hands and feet cold and damp, while she dusted off the ladies of other days, standing in front of their Pierce Arrows that looked like toys, or trailing their dresses along the floor and talking to the elegant young men who leaned forever gratefully against the mantlepiece. My One Rose, my only love—and smiling devilishly from beneath her pure golden lashes, Miss Teasedale let fall the fatal words from her enchanting lips, “Mr. Alderson, it is my painful …