Dorothy and their host were over at the bookcase deep in a discussion of the respective merits of Scott and Dickens, when Ethel crossed the room and came toward them.
“I think,” she said, with the slightest of inclinations in Hustler Joe’s direction, “that the storm is over. We can go now.”
“So it is,” said Dorothy; then turning to the man at her side she held out a cordial hand. “Thank you very much. You have been very kind.”
“Yes, very kind—thank you,” murmured Ethel, bowing slightly and turning toward the door. “We shall have to go home by the road,” she announced regretfully a moment later, as she stood outside looking longingly at the hillside path where the wet grass sparkled in the sun.
For a time the two girls walked on in silence, then Dorothy murmured softly:
“Not a word of English—not a word!”
Ethel gave a sidelong look from her lowered lids.
“Well, I didn’t suppose they could!” she said petulantly.
“I wouldn’t trust my life near one of them,” continued Dorothy in the same low voice.
Ethel shrugged her shoulders and a faint pink showed on her forehead.