“Yes,” said Mitchell dryly, “it’s always a good plan to slide on until you slide off. It would be so easy to reverse the game.”
“And then, too,—” began Burnett.
“Excuse me,” said a voice at the door,—a woman’s voice this time.
It was Janice, very pretty in her black dress and white decorations, hands in pockets, smile on lips.
“What’s up now?” the last speaker interrupted himself to ask, “Aunt Mary?”
“No, she’s not up,” said the maid; “but she’s awake and wants to know about the picnic.”
“There, what did I say!” cried Burnett; “isn’t she a hero? I tell you Aunt Mary’d fight in the last ditch—she’d never surrender! She’s one of those dead-at-the-gun chaps. I’m proud to think we have known the companionship of joint yachting results.”
“She says she feels as well as ever,” said Janice, opening her eyes a trifle as she noted Burnett’s pink silk negligée, “and wishes to know when you want to start.”
“Bravo,” said Mitchell; “I, too, am fired by this exposition of pluck. I like spirit. She reminds me of the horse who was turned out to grass and then suddenly broke the world’s record.”
“What horse was that?” asked Burnett.