"The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here
by seven o'clock."
"Confound his impudence, I'll show him," grumbled his lordship as he
followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.
"What's up, Cecil, with your legs?" called his sister. "Are you
getting old?" This suggestion always irritated him.
"Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly
American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this
beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--" but he was obliged
to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she
hurried through the door.
The Honorable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A
perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought
was almost expressed aloud: "By Jove, I wonder if she really loves
him." Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting
America for the first time and she was learning rapidly. "Cecil's a
good sort, you know, even--" but she was loyal enough to send her
thoughts into other channels.
Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were
fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and
they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and
also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy
and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed
early because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting
up.
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