“Do you like that kind of a town, Mr. Hall?” asked Mrs. Pope grimly.
“Do I? Well, rather. Chinatown’s got anything I ever saw wiped right off the map. Great!”
“Indeed?” The amount of reproof that Mrs. Pope could put into that single word exceeds belief. “I should hardly suppose any respectable person would want to visit such places.”
“I’m afraid I’m not respectable, Mrs. Pope. I’m only honest,” laughed Hall, as he turned to Edith. “I looked for your husband on the train, Mrs. Rogers. Hoped I might be lucky enough to run across him.”
“He came earlier. He’s dressing now. I’m expecting him down at any moment.”
“Dressing!” ejaculated Mr. Hall, with a wry face. “Whew! I’m afraid I’ll disgrace the party. I didn’t bring my evening togs. Somehow, I’d got the idea from your sister that you were roughing it down here. She wrote me you had taken a cottage—” He looked about the stately hall with a broad smile. “Some cottage!” he observed.
“Don’t bother about not dressing, Mr. Hall. Mr. Rogers generally wears flannels, hot nights like this. Shall I show you to your room?”
“Let me do so, Edith,” said Mrs. Pope, puffing forward importantly. “And, really, I’m going up, anyway.”
She swept up the staircase, with their guest meekly following in her rear.
“Dinner at seven,” called Alice, after them.