Mr. Livingstone Wade surveyed the landau into which he stepped with scant favor; and the look which he gave to the ragged darky who held the reins was only equaled by the one he bestowed on the two battered equines who were to serve as their means of locomotion.
As they swung into the main street of the little town, Hastings laughed with a perfectly genuine amusement.
“I might open an architect’s office here, on the side,” he said. “They certainly need it.”
Mr. Wade’s eyes were upon an up-to-date trap, drawn by a well-matched, high-stepping pair. The middle-aged man who was driving turned on them a look of amused curiosity as they passed.
“Whom do those horses belong to?” demanded Mr. Wade, sharply.
“Belong to Carrington,” said Richards, shortly. “That was his man. That’s his house at the other end of the street—that big one on the hill.” He jerked his head to indicate that it was back of them, and they turned to see it. It had a large, comfortable, hospitable look, more suggestive of the South than of the North.
“The hotel’s good enough for me,” said Richards, dryly.
Mr. Wade wondered why this sentiment, which had seemed so admirable to him in New York, lost its flavor here on the ground.
As they passed a blacksmith’s shop, the smith was shoeing a Kentucky thoroughbred, who looked at them with an airy unconcern.
“Carrington’s,” said Richards to Mr. Wade’s uplifted eyebrows.