So Felix, reluctantly, went along to the station.
Tom jested at his reluctance. “Why, are you afraid of becoming entangled in Gloria’s celebrated eyelashes?”
“No, I’m not afraid of that,” Felix said.
Tom laughed and put his hand on Felix’s shoulder.
“Think, they bring us news of the great world: London! Paris! Doesn’t that stir you?”
“No,” Felix retorted, “for I don’t believe it. They bring back what they took with them.”
“Wait and see! I hear rumours that Gloria has become fearfully cosmopolitan.”
When Gloria and Madge stepped from the train, it was evident, even to so careless an observer as Felix, that they had been at least outwardly transformed. Every woman in Port Royal was wearing the wide-flaring “Merry Widow” hat; and these girls wore small close-fitting hats—Gloria’s being a jaunty little flower-confection, and Madge’s a tiny straw turban set off by a perky feather.
“Dear old Tom,” said Gloria, embracing him affectionately. “Too busy to come to town to see old friends, so old friends have to come see him. Busy writing great novel?”
“More or less,” Tom answered, and they started back up the road. “How’s Europe?”