“Then, I may tell you that we expect him to be one of our best architects,” young Carrington returned, gracefully.
“The rising architect of Yellow Dog,” Hastings said, with a wave of his hands. “I think I shall begin by building a little bungalow here for myself.”
“A very good idea,” said Mr. Wade, decisively.
Hastings’ first phrase had smitten him with a sudden contrition. He felt, too, that if he was going to come out to Yellow Dog himself, and if his nephew stayed there he should, of course, come out once a year, at least, a cozily built bungalow, where he might be made comfortable, was in the line of a necessity. “I should get about it at once,” he declared.
“Perhaps you would like to drive about this morning, and select your site for ‘A Bungalow for One,’” said young Carrington, laughingly. There was a slightly mocking emphasis on the last word.
“I shouldn’t have it too small,” said Mr. Wade, firmly.
Richards was whistling between his teeth now, a performance which always enraged Mr. Wade.
“But we will have to let the site go for this morning, at least;” and there was a precise distinctness about Mr. Wade’s words now. “Mr. Richards has just been arranging to take us down the mine this morning.”
Richards wheeled round, surprised.
Young Carrington rose with an unhurried ease.