"That young fellow in the new suit has just come back from Europe," said
a man to his wife and daughter. "He seems to have had a good time."
"Papa," the daughter leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice, "I heard
him say 'Lord Mount Dunstan said Lady Anstruthers and Miss Vanderpoel
were at the garden party.' Who do you suppose he is?"
"Well, he's a nice young fellow, and he has English clothes on, but he
doesn't look like one of the Four Hundred. Will you have pie or vanilla
ice cream, Bessy?"
Bessy--who chose vanilla ice cream--lost all knowledge of its flavour
in her absorption in the conversation at the next table, which she could
not have avoided hearing, even if she had wished.
"She bent over the bed and laughed--just like any other nice girl--and
she said, 'You are at Stornham Court, which belongs to Sir Nigel
Anstruthers. Lady Anstruthers is my sister. I am Miss Vanderpoel.' And,
boys, she used to come and talk to me every day."
"George," said Nick Baumgarten, "you take about seventy-five bottles of
Warner's Safe Cure, and rub yourself all over with St. Jacob's Oil. Luck
like that ain't HEALTHY!"
. . . . .
Mr. Vanderpoel, sitting in his study, wore the interestedly grave look
of a man thinking of absorbing things.
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