Caracal, for his part, cared little about space. He regretted the days when the Boulevard was the only promenade. Tramways and railroads seemed to him high treason against Paris—something like an invasion of the coarse air of fields and woods into the artistic atmosphere of cafés.
“No, no!” Miss Rowrer answered. “Leave things as they are—a little pure air does no harm.”
“To be sure!” said grandma.
Caracal refused to be consoled.
“If this goes on,” he said, “Paris will soon be Paris no longer—that something indefinable and apart; that hothouse which has made us the neurasthenic and dislocated skipjacks that we are.”
“Well, if that’s your manner of loving Paris!” Ethel said, laughing. “Really, you see things worse than they are!”
Caracal, perceiving he was on the wrong tack, stopped short.
“Just the contrary, you ought to be glad for something that is worth more than hygiene—moral health,” Miss Rowrer continued. “Why should people stay piled together when there is so much empty space around? Tempers are embittered and bodies weakened. Give it space and air and your Paris will cease to be what you would wish it to remain—a hothouse full of dislocated skipjacks and neurasthéniques—such as our up-to-date people are, according to you.”
“That’s a good one on Caracal,” thought Phil to himself.
Will, who was not conducting the auto that day, interrupted Ethel. He spoke little, but he thought and then went straight to the point.