Caracal had just had a bright thought. He knew his friend Vieillecloche would do whatever he wished, since the blackmailing scheme against the Rowrers had not succeeded and no check had come or would come to close his mouth. It would be just as well to look for something else. Caracal would have himself attacked—he would turn aside the storm to himself by taking up the defense of foreigners, to the apparent indignation of Vieillecloche. In this noble combat against calumny he would stand forth as a hero in the eyes of Ethel, like a St. George slaying the dragon. The duke and Phil would have to look out for themselves. He would know how to cover them with ridicule—them and their Helia—in some good little newspaper chronique, sweet as honey, which Ethel might read. For that matter, Phil had already a shot in his wing—he would find it out in a few days and remember his cow painting!
“I will arrange all that this evening with Vieillecloche,” thought Caracal. “I shall be well able to pay for a service like that if I marry Miss Ethel.” Then aloud: “I shall do so—you can count on me, Miss Rowrer!”
All this was but one of a thousand incidents of their trips.
“I have heard of le dernier salon où l’on cause [the last salon for conversation],” Ethel remarked. “I suppose it has disappeared, it is so long since people began talking about it. Well, our auto takes its place—it is the first auto où l’on cause.”
“When one listens to you, Miss Rowrer, one can say that wit runs the streets,” added Caracal, gallantly.
Every moment some new observation sprang, bringing out individual character.
For instance, a cab passed them noisily, the horse pounding along the street and the driver lashing him.
“What a noise!” Will said. “Why are people so obstinate with their hippomobiles? Why not put rubber on the wheels first, and then on the horses’ shoes?”
Will calculated the chances of a company to be organized for this purpose—so many horses in Europe, so many horseshoes rubbered, investment of capital so much, revenue so much.
“They are ’way behind,” said grandma. “What an idea, to be driven about in such dust-boxes!”