Mrs. Trimwell vanished.
CHAPTER VII
FLIGHTS OF FANCY
Corin looked dubiously at John.
“She talks a good deal,” quoth he tentatively.
“I have,” returned John, “conceived a great affection for Mrs. Trimwell. Her ideas are original. She has, also, a distinct prejudice in favour of speaking her mind with a candour and verve which I find undeniably refreshing. Yes; certainly I have conceived an affection for her.”
Corin snorted.
“Every man to his own taste,” said he. “For my part I find her over-fluent of speech.”
“That,” replied John, “arises merely from a tendency I have frequently noted in you to monopolize the whole conversation; to mop it, so to speak, into your own sponge, thereby leaving the sponges of others bone dry.”
“I have never,” retorted Corin, “observed that your sponge lacked moisture, if you will use terms of parable instead of straightforward words. But to leave Mrs. Trimwell for the moment. How did you enjoy the morning? Did I expand one whit too freely on the glories of the surrounding country? Is there not colour,—radiant, vital colour at every turn?”
“I’ll allow there’s sufficient beauty hereabouts,” conceded John.