"And to think," Prime remarked, "that the coldest thing he can get on this train is ginger ale."
Kemp, coming back with a golden bottle, with cracked ice in a tall glass, with a crisp curl of
lemon peel, ready for an innocuous libation, brought his nose down from the heights to look for the foot, found that it no longer barred the way, and marched on to hidden music.
"Leave the door open, leave it open," snapped the voice, "isn't there an electric fan? Well, put it on, put it on——"
"He drinks nectar and complains to the gods," said the Major softly, "why can't we, too, drink?"
They had theirs on a table which the porter set between them. The train moved on before they had finished. "We'll be in Charlottesville in less than an hour," the conductor announced.
"Is that where we get off, Paine?"
"One mile beyond. Are they going to meet you?"
"I'll get a station wagon."
Young Paine grinned. "There aren't any. But if Mother knows you're coming she'll send down. And anyhow she expects me."