The expression on Mr. Wade’s face was a curious one. Your tourist in Europe now and then wears its twin, on discovering that the United States is renting a second-rate building for an embassy, when other governments own pretentious ones.
“Tell you what,” said Hastings, suddenly. “I think I shall buy a neat little touring car to run around here. Pretty bad grades, but there are half a dozen makes that could take them easily.”
Mr. Wade looked at him with the ever-growing conviction that he was the kind of nephew to have. In spite of his conservatism, he had adopted the auto as he had the telephone.
“Quite right, Laurence,” he said, complacently. “When you order the one you prefer, have the bill sent to me.”
“Going to import a show-fure?” queried Richards, with ironic pleasantry.
Hastings shook his head.
“Never saw one I couldn’t run yet,” he said, cheerfully, “and when I do I’ll send it back to the factory as defective.”
“If he’ll just put in his time running it, it’s all I’ll ask of him,” communed Richards with himself.
* * * * *
At two o’clock of that day Mr. Wade had concluded that all he had ever heard of the enormities of the West was far below the actual fact.