shade refreshed her. She saw Říp, and Ještěd, and Milešovka, familiar villages about her, and familiar roads, and she pointed them all out to Lucy. Thus they travelled on, the sunshine now and then beaming on their faces.
Lucy began to talk: she spoke of her childhood, and of the country, where she had lived,—happy recollections bubbled up unbidden in her soul.
Jiří was silent. Only, from time to time, he complained of the heat, the gnats, and the small flies. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead, yawned, and continued smoking. His soul was like a house from which people had just moved: no object, no picture, no voices, no motion,—only a wearisome calm. . . .
They travelled on. A village. Again the road. Again a village. A small pond. A mill nearby. Off the road grew some small trees, cherry and plum trees. They travelled on.
