“I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,” chanted Uncle Chris, “and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song—How long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!”
“He can also recite ‘Gunga Din,’” said Jill to Nelly. “I really must apologize for all this. He’s usually as good as gold.”
“I believe I know how he feels,” said Nelly softly.
“Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the world. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here.”
“Eh, what?” said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been watching Nelly’s face. Its wistfulness attracted him.
“We are only happy,” proceeded Uncle Chris, “when we are wandering.”
“You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning,” said Jill. “He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely defying fatigue.”
“That,” said Uncle Chris, “is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink.” He expanded his chest. “I shall be a different man in America. America would make a different man of you, Freddie.”
“I’m all right, thanks!” said that easily satisfied young man.
Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.