Miss Van Meeker Constantia stood for a minute at the window gazing, toward the little park, flooded with the mellow afternoon sunlight.  With the eye of a botanist she viewed the flowers—­most potent weapons of insidious May.  With the cool pulses of a virgin of Cologne she withstood the attack of the ethereal mildness.  The arrows of the pleasant sunshine fell back, frostbitten, from the cold panoply of her unthrilled bosom.  The odour of the flowers waked no soft sentiments in the unexplored recesses of her dormant heart.  The chirp of the sparrows gave her a pain.  She mocked at May.

But although Miss Coulson was proof against the season, she was keen enough to estimate its power.  She knew that elderly men and thick-waisted women jumped as educated fleas in the ridiculous train of May, the merry mocker of the months.  She had heard of foolish old gentlemen marrying their housekeepers before.  What a humiliating thing, after all, was this feeling called love!

The next morning at 8 o’clock, when the iceman called, the cook told him that Miss Coulson wanted to see him in the basement.

“Well, ain’t I the Olcott and Depew; not mentioning the first name at all?” said the iceman, admiringly, of himself.

As a concession he rolled his sleeves down, dropped his icehooks on a syringa and went back.  When Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson addressed him he took off his hat.

“There is a rear entrance to this basement,” said Miss Coulson, “which can be reached by driving into the vacant lot next door, where they are excavating for a building.  I want you to bring in that way within two hours 1,000 pounds of ice.  You may have to bring another man or two to help you.  I will show you where I want it placed.  I also want 1,000 pounds a day delivered the same way for the next four days.  Your company may charge the ice on our regular bill.  This is for your extra trouble.”

Miss Coulson tendered a ten-dollar bill.  The iceman bowed, and held his hat in his two hands behind him.

“Not if you’ll excuse me, lady.  It’ll be a pleasure to fix things up for you any way you please.”

Alas for May!

About noon Mr. Coulson knocked two glasses off his table, broke the spring of his bell and yelled for Higgins at the same time.

“Bring an axe,” commanded Mr. Coulson, sardonically, “or send out for a quart of prussic acid, or have a policeman come in and shoot me.  I’d rather that than be frozen to death.”

“It does seem to be getting cool, Sir,” said Higgins.  “I hadn’t noticed it before.  I’ll close the window, Sir.”

“Do,” said Mr. Coulson.  “They call this spring, do they?  If it keeps up long I’ll go back to Palm Beach.  House feels like a morgue.”

Later Miss Coulson dutifully came in to inquire how the gout was progressing.

“’Stantia,” said the old man, “how is the weather outdoors?”

“Bright,” answered Miss Coulson, “but chilly.”