“You never rest in this country?” he said, addressing the men in the library at midnight, as they were having a final nightcap.
“Why should we?” replied Browne. “Why anticipate the grave’s only pleasure?”
“You see,” explained Wallingford, “on this side of the water we take our pleasures energetically. When we work, we work hard; when we play, we play hard. If we’re having a good time, we crowd our luck, in the hope of having a better time. If we’re bored, we hurry, to get it over with.”
“Do you keep this up the year round?”
“Except on ocean steamers. But we’ll close that gap when we get the ‘wireless’ installed, with a telephone to the head of every berth.”
VI
ON a Monday morning—Frothingham’s eighth day at Lake-in-the-wood—only Wallingford and the tireless Catherine appeared for the early ride. “It’s cold,” said Wallingford. “Shall we canter?” And they swept through the gates and on over the frost-spangled meadows for several miles before they drew their horses in to a walk. Catherine’s cheeks were glowing, and her eyes were not dreamy and soulful, but bright with vigorous, wide-awake life.
“I haven’t seen you looking so well in years, Kitty.”