“Flattery. You don't say such things to each other at the club. What is your objection to Newport?”
“I didn't say I had any. But if you compel me well, the whole thing seems to be a kind of imitation.”
“How?”
“Oh, the way things go on—the steeple-chasing and fox-hunting, and the carts, and the style of the swell entertainments. Is that ill-natured?”
“Not at all. I like candor, especially English candor. But there is Miss Eschelle.”
Carmen drove up with Count Crispo, threw the reins to the groom, and reached the ground with a touch on the shoulder of the count, who had alighted to help her down.
“Carmen,” said Margaret, “Mr. Ponsonby says that all Newport is just an imitation.”
“Of course it is. We are all imitations, except Count Crispo. I'll bet a cup of tea against a pair of gloves,” said Carmen, who had facility in picking up information, “that Mr. Ponsonby wasn't born in England.”
Mr. Ponsonby looked redder than usual, and then laughed, and said, “Well, I was only three years old when I left Halifax.”
“I knew it!” cried Carmen, clapping her hands. “Now come in and have a cup of English breakfast tea. That's imitation, too.”