“The police won’t give it back,” said Bobbins, mysteriously.
“The police!” said Miss Van Velt, startled. “What have they to do——”
“With my Mercedes?” said Bobbins, cheerfully. “That’s just the attitude I’ve tried to take with them. But it has cost me five hundred francs this week, and this is only Wednesday. The dearest thing on earth to me is Mercedes, my Mercedes,” he hummed, pathetically.
“You naturally would lavish your young affection on machines,” Miss Van Velt remarked, cruelly, but she gave him a look of decided favor.
“So long as you think I am in the running,” said Bobbins, placidly.
The maid had brought in a letter with an American postmark. Carrington held it in his hand as he crossed over to join the group around the tea table.
Mrs. Van Velt was enjoying her usual volubility, and Hastings was paying her the flattery of an apparent attention and a comprehendingly amused smile, while his eyes gave the deeper homage of frequent and involuntary glances to Elenore.
For him, at least, Elenore was the central figure. Nor was it only for him. Things were quite apt to gravitate around Elenore. Ned himself did not overshadow his twin. If there is any truth in theosophic theories, she had an unusually powerful aura; if we discard the esoteric for the exoteric, beauty and wit and reserve force, cast in the mold of an alluring femininity, are quite as attractive as the same buoyant youth, plus tremendous talent, in masculine fiber.
Elenore had, too, a certain firm, keen grasp on the realities of life which Carrington, with all his localized talent, lacked. One felt that she would not fail in any qualm, that she would not be daunted by any obstacle, that in crises she would think not of surrender or sacrifice, but of resource and expedient.
Mrs. Van Velt was concluding her story of a recent tea given for a famous woman novelist.