“Well,” said Mrs. Bradley, emphatically. “DID you ever? Walking fifteen miles for pleasure—and with such lungs!”
“And that knapsack!” added Louise Macy, pointing to the mark in her little palm where the strap had imbedded itself in the soft flesh.
“He's nice, though; isn't he?” said Mrs. Bradley, tentatively.
“Yes,” said Miss Macy, “he isn't, certainly, one of those provincial fine gentlemen you object to. But DID you see his shoes? I suppose they make the miles go quickly, or seem to measure less by comparison.”
“They're probably more serviceable than those high-heeled things that Captain Greyson hops about in.”
“But the Captain always rides—and rides very well—you know,” said Louise, reflectively. There was a moment's pause.
“I suppose Jim will tell us all about him,” said Mrs. Bradley, dismissing the subject, as she turned her sleeves back over her white arms, preparatory to grappling certain culinary difficulties.
“Jim,” observed Miss Macy, shortly, “in my opinion, knows nothing more than his note says. That's like Jim.”
“There's nothing more to know, really,” said Mrs. Bradley, with a superior air. “He's undoubtedly the son of some Englishman of fortune, sent out here for his health.”
“Hush!”