“How is young Mr. Carrington this morning?” said Mr. Wade, stepping into the trap, to Mr. Kipley, driving. “None the worse for yesterday, I hope?”
Mr. Kipley’s face contorted, as though he were about to sneeze.
“He’s lookin’ about the same,” he replied, and his voice sounded muffled. He seemed to derive such inward satisfaction from the phrase that he repeated it: “He’s lookin’ about the same. I don’t think it hurt him none.” And immediately gave his attention to his horses.
John Carrington was on the veranda to receive them.
“This is a gala day,” he told them, as he grasped their hands in warm welcome. “My other child came home last night.”
Hastings’ heart leaped.
“Your daughter?” said Mr. Wade, politely. And with his words Elenore came forward to meet them.
She had doffed the linen gown of the morning for the delicately elaborate one she had last worn at that farewell tea in Paris.
There was the faintest suggestion of shyness in the gracefully smiling welcome she gave Mr. Wade, which suited that particular old gentleman to a T.
“You have every reason to be proud of both your children,” he said, affably, to John Carrington.