“All right.”
Usually Philip, who was far from obliging naturally, made a fuss when asked to do an errand, but now he spoke very good-humoredly. He was so anxious to get out of the house that he was ready to promise anything.
“I really think Philip is improving,” said his mother, after he had gone out.
“There’s some room for it,” remarked his father, dryly.
Philip, as may be supposed, made his way as quickly as possible to the hotel. As he came up, he saw the one of whom he was in search—James Congreve—standing on the piazza, smoking a cigarette.
“Well?” he said, guessing something from the evident excitement of Philip’s manner.
“Let us go up to your room, Congreve,” said Phil.
“All right.”
He led the way upstairs to the small room which he occupied as a bedroom, and Philip followed him in. The latter carefully closed the door.
“I’ve got ’em,” he exclaimed, triumphantly.