“Is this Miss Lancaster?”
“My brother, Hilary,” and Hilary looked up into the smiling face of Philip Van Buskirk Junior. The checks were passed over to the chauffeur, Hilary received a confused impression of the big station, and then found herself being helped into a comfortable, warm car and tucked in rugs by this same handsome host who kept up a good-humored flow of conversation with Cathalina. She was one question mark at first, according to Phil, who gave her an account of himself and the family as she inquired. Hilary was too much interested in the sights and sounds of the city to say an unnecessary word.
“The streets are in pretty good shape considering the snow we’ve had,” Philip was saying.
“It isn’t so cold today either,” added Cathalina. “O, dear old New York! I’m so glad to be home again!”
“And how glad Mother and Father will be to have you, Cat, nobody but me—”
“O, please don’t call me that, Phil! I did hope that none of the girls would ever hear that nickname!” Cathalina gave Hilary an imploring look.
Hilary responded nobly. “I’ll never tell, or call you that myself,” she declared.
“Kathleen, then,” said Phil, laughing. “Is that better?”
“Yes; and if it is sentimental I like it best when you call me Kathleen Mavourneen.”
“O, that’s just because it makes me think of the song, you know,” and Phil looked at Cathalina teasingly. But Cathalina slipped her arm through his and he patted her hand.