“WELL, Philip, my boy,” said Tom, slapping me on the knee when we were all in our seats, and I had relieved “Crœsus” of the reins, “I suppose it was an unpardonable piece of assurance for me to invite a man you had never seen without letting you know he was coming. And then to let him come up first! That was certainly rubbing it in, but the poor boy doesn’t have a chance to get out much. Sort of a fresh air charity on your part.”
He roared with laughter at this sally of his, and Hepburn smiled faintly.
“This poor boy has always had to do the society act, Philip, and he’s fitted for better things. Hope you haven’t any hops up at your house. Have you any hops?”
“Not a hop,” said I.
“Nor a cotillion?”
“Nor a cotillon. In fact, I’m afraid it may be rather dull for one who is accustomed to do something all the time.”
“I’m sure I’ll have a delightful time,” said Hepburn from the second seat. “I’m rather tired. It’ll be a jolly good thing for me.”
“By George, isn’t this a paintable country?” broke in Tom. “If a man could only get the fragrance of this air into his pictures it would be no trouble to get rid of them.”
“Inoculated already,” laughed Ethel.
“Oh, I always get inoculated as soon as I come to this kind of country. I was born on prairie country and I never saw a hill until I was eighteen, and then I wondered how I had lived without ’em.” He turned ’way round. “Pity you don’t paint, Benedict.”