“'Mr. John Winton': it's a pretty name as names go, but it isn't as strong as he is. He is an 'industry colonel,' isn't he? He looks it.”
The Bostonian avenged himself at Winton's expense for the unwelcome interruption.
“So much for your woman's intuition,” he laughed. “Speaking of idlers, there is your man to the dotting of the 'i'; a dilettante raised to the nth power.”
Miss Carteret's short upper lip curled in undisguised scorn.
“I like men who do things,” she asserted with pointed emphasis; whereupon the talk drifted eastward to Boston, and Winton was ignored until Virginia, having exhausted the reminiscent vein, said, “You are going on through to Denver?”
“To Denver and beyond,” was the reply. “Winton has a notion of hibernating in the mountains—fancy it; in the dead of winter!—and he has persuaded me to go along. He sketches a little, you know.”
“Oh, so he is an artist?” said Virginia, with interest newly aroused.
“No,” said Adams gloomily, “he isn't an artist—isn't much of anything, I'm sorry to say. Worse than all, he doesn't know his grandfather's middle name. Told me so himself.”
“That is inexcusable—in a dilettante,” said Miss Virginia mockingly. “Don't you think so?”
“It is inexcusable in anyone,” said the Technologian, rising to take his leave. Then, as a parting word: “Does the Rosemary set its own table? or do you dine in the dining-car?”