“Can you prove your reputation for wit?” Florence asked him.
Thair leaned back, chin up, eyes down. He was enjoying himself.
“The reputation for wit,” he proclaimed, “hangs on the things a man has said, and the things you hope he’ll presently say. He’s like the ‘white queen’ in what’s-its-name—jam yesterday, jam to-morrow, but never jam to-day.”
“Speaking of jam,” Julia plumped in nonchalantly, “will you please pass me the marmalade, Mr. Thair? (Never mind, Wong!) Mama,” she called across the table, “has it been decided whether we are to ride or drive over to the links?”
The question caught an undercurrent of attention through the talk. Not that the method of progression so much mattered to the breakfasters, as the company in which they traveled. They hung upon Mrs. Budd as the arbiter of their fate.
“Why, both, pet.” The hostess’s glance flashed upon her guests at large, though her reply, obviously, was limited to her daughter. “I have ordered the surrey. That and Mr. Thair’s machine take half of us, but you young people will, of course, prefer your saddles.”
“You’ll ride?” Holden murmured to Florence.
She looked down at his big, blunt hand, resting on the table.
“Did you say your horses were here?”
“Why, yes, the span are. Drove ’em down from Palo Alto.” He was eager “Would you rather—”