“Hey, Dolly! To switch off from a private-car-ice-palace-trip into a boot-boy’s jacket is funny enough. Who’s the candidate you’re electioneering for?”
Miss Muriel hushed Winifred’s nonsense which had gone far enough and was due, she knew, to the girl’s wild delight over her father’s promised visit.
“If you could find a good one for me, Dorothy, you would certainly be doing me a favor, not I one for you. Whom do you mean?”
“Robin Locke, Miss Tross-Kingdon. He’s so very poor.”
“Poverty isn’t always a recommendation for usefulness. Is he old enough? Is it that lad who came with Mr. Gilpin?”
“Yes, Miss Muriel. He’s just the loveliest boy I’ve seen in Canada—”
“The only one, except Jack!” interrupted Winifred.
“It was because of me and my carelessness he got hurt and broke himself. He was carrying my telegram that I ought to have sent long before and he was so starved he fell off his bicycle and always ever since I’ve wished I could help him some way and he’d have such a nice home here and he wouldn’t bring in goats, and his mother could do things to help and I thought maybe he could do the shoes and other things would be easier than what he did and could be a golf-boy for the Bishop when the time comes and it’s pretty near and—”
“There, Dorothy, take your breath, and put a comma or two into your sentences. Then we’ll talk about this project of yours. Where’s Robin now?”
“Right out on the settle this minute waiting—if he hasn’t gone away—May I—”