“Pegasus,” said Mitchell cruelly; “I didn’t say what kind of a record he broke, did I?”
“What shall I tell Miss Watkins?” asked the maid.
Jack, who had risen at her entrance and gone to the window, faced around here and said:
“Tell her that if she’ll dress we’ll go out bonnet-shooting and afterwards drive in the park.”
Janice hesitated.
“She will surely ask where you are to dine,” said she, half-smiling.
Jack looked at the crowd.
“Fellows,” he said, “we must save up for to-morrow’s blow-out; suppose you let Mitchell and me dine Aunt Mary somewhere very tranquilly to-night and we’ll get her home by eleven.”
“Yes, do,” said Janice, with sudden earnest entreaty. “Honestly, there is a limit.”
“Of course, there is a limit,” said Mitchell. “Even cities have their limits. This one tried to be an exception, but San Francisco yelled ‘Keep off’ and she drew in her claws again. Aunt Mary, possessing many points in common with New York, also possesses that. She has limits. Her limits took in more than we bargained for,—for they have taken us into the bargain. Still they are there, and we bow to necessity. A cheerful drive, a quiet tea, early to bed. And pax vobiscum.”