“I’m in love with her and Guadalupe Hathaway and the ‘three Macs’ and Mrs. McLane. I never met so many attractive women in one place.”
“Would it be Mrs. Hunt McLane—a Creole? I met her once in Paris—got to know her very well.”
“You don’t say. She’ll make things hum for you. There’s something else I wanted to say. I thought I’d wait and see if you discovered it yourself, but I believe I won’t. It’s this: there’s something queer about the Randolphs in spite of the fact that they’re more to the front than any people in San Francisco. I never leave that house that I don’t carry away a vague impression that there’s something behind the scenes I don’t know anything about. I’ve never spoken of it to anyone else; it would be rather disloyal, after all the kindness they’ve shown me; but I’m too curious to know how they will impress you. I’ve only been here six months, and only know what everybody else knows about them—”
“Do you know, Hastings,” said the Englishman abruptly, “I think something is wrong outside. I don’t believe anyone is guiding those horses.”
Hastings lowered the window beside him and thrust out his head.
“Hi, there, Tim!” he shouted. “What are you about?”
There was no reply.
“Hello!” he cried, thinking the wind might have miscarried his voice.
Again there was no reply; but the horses, gratefully construing the final syllable to their own needs, came to a full stop.
Hastings opened the door and sprang on to the hub of the wheel, expostulating angrily. He returned in a moment to his companion.