“Mr. Derwent’s eyes mean more to him than ours do to us, naturally,” returned Helen.
“And I tell you,” returned Robert devoutly, “anybody endears himself to Uncle Henry who brings his coffee just right. That blonde must have done it this morning. How,” turning to his mother, “does my mother enjoy democratic traveling? This girl is a peach; but you should see the other one that was with her this morning in the coach. Did you?”
“No,” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Why should I trouble myself about my neighbors? I came to see the scenery.”
“Well,” Robert shrugged his shoulders, “all is, you’ve missed a chance to see how a perfect lady should behave. Her gum-manners were a dream; but cheer up! You’ll have a chance this afternoon, doubtless.”
Here Rosalie brought the soup. Helen Maynard looked up at her and received a strange impression of familiarity.
“She looks like some one,” she said softly. “Who is it?”
“I know,” responded Robert promptly, “Hebe.”
“I haven’t met her yet,” returned Helen. “I’m climbing the mount of Olympus by slow and easy stages.”
“Now if you mean anything about me,” returned Robert briskly, “speak right out. I can’t cope with clever people. If you’re clever, I’m done for.”