Young Carrington seemed amused.
“Elenore’s plans were rather upset this summer,” he said, lightly, “as well as mine. She’s far from Brittany, in a curious little place you never heard of in France.” He was rather proud of the way that sentence was turned. “She’s with a friend, and enjoying herself, though she says it’s all queer.”
Hastings had a mental vision of Elenore in some far-off corner of France, making gay over all its out-of-the-way absurdities in that companionable way of hers.
“I wish she were here,” he said, suddenly.
“Oh, well, I dare say she’d rather be where she is than anywhere else,” Ned rejoined, carelessly.
Which was cold comfort to Hastings.
“By the way,” he said, turning, as he was about to step into the trap, “I suppose we’re perfectly safe to make our headquarters in the car here?”
“Safe as the Waldorf, if you’re on a siding,” Ned laughed. “If you stay on the main track the cars will hit you.”
Hastings mentally swore at himself. The question had sounded idiotic.
“See you in the morning,” Ned called, as Hastings drove off. But he walked back to the house rather slowly.