‘Thank goodness, they don’t put such things in one’s coffin nowadays,’ said Marcia; ‘or twenty-five hundred years from now some other girl would be saying the same of us.’
‘Twenty-five hundred years,’ Eleanor murmured. ‘I declare, my nine seasons sink into insignificance!’ She dropped the bottle into its tray and leaned back in her chair with a little laugh. ‘America is a bit tame, isn’t it, after Italy? One doesn’t get so many emotions.’
‘I’m not sure but one gets too many in Italy,’ said Marcia.
‘How long are you going to stay over?’
‘I don’t know. It’s so much easier not to make up one’s mind. I shall probably stay a year or so longer with Uncle Howard.’
‘I like your uncle, Marcia. He has a very taking way of saying funny things without smiling.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Marcia, ‘he has!’
‘And as for Mr. Sybert——’ Margaret put in mockingly.
‘I think he’s about the most interesting man I’ve met in Europe,’ Eleanor agreed imperturbably.
‘The most interesting man you’ve met in Europe?’ Marcia opened her eyes. The statement was sweeping, and Eleanor had had experience. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.