"Well, I'm sure we've told Miss Christie quite enough about our neighbors—for a first sitting," Hilda Montgomery broke in at this point, as she rose and made a reckless suggestion that we go out and walk a little while. "I don't wish to spend the whole afternoon talking about a villainous old Englishman!" she confided, when we were well out of ear-shot. "One might spend the time talking about 'Americans—don't you know?'"
"Americans?"
"Yes—charming, handsome, young Americans! You remember the first thing I told you was that I loved Americans?"
"Yes—and your father and mother said they did, too—when you weren't listening."
She nodded her blond head, in energetic delight.
"They are trying to pretend that it will be a difficult matter to win their consent—but it won't."
We steered our course around a group of people who were disputing, in Wabash tones, over a game of shuffleboard.
"Consent?" I repeated.
"His name is John McAdoo Carpenter—and he lives at South Bend, Indiana—did you ever hear of the place? Did you ever hear of him?"
She caught me by the arm and we walked precipitately over to the railing—out of the sound of the Wabash tones.