“I’m so happy, Bobbins,” Carrington confided in him, “that I can’t even think. Isn’t it ripping—going east with Velantour?”
“It is for you, Rising Genius,” Bobbins assured him, “but so far as I am concerned, though I might manage to sit under a Kashmirian cedar with a fan, standing on an icy peak with a pot of paint strapped to my waistband, and a fault-finding old gentleman to tell me how badly I was using it, isn’t my ideal of bliss. No Himalayas for me.”
“Bless you, Bobbins, we’re not contracting to paint them by the yard, the way you do a fence,” expostulated Carrington, laughingly. “We’re going to make pictures, not advertise breakfast foods.”
“What is your sister going to do?” queried Bobbins.
“Elenore is going to Brittany to-morrow with the Waldens,” Carrington told him promptly.
“And Hastings, I presume, has always wanted to go to Brittany,” Bobbins laughed.
“Well, Hastings has certainly developed a sudden enthusiasm in that direction,” Carrington acknowledged.
“Do you suppose Elenore——” Bobbins began mysteriously.
“I know enough to know that I don’t know anything about girls,” Elenore’s brother announced, promptly. “Do you suppose Hastings——”
“I certainly do,” said Bobbins, fervently. “And he has a bad case of it. Wouldn’t go to the Bal Bullier the other night; thinks cafés chantants are vulgar; doesn’t hear what you are saying half the time, and has taken to humming ‘Home-keeping hearts are happiest.’ You don’t have to take him to the hospital to see what’s the matter with him.”