Our ride was pleasant and it did not seem anything like two hours when we heard the whistle of the train at South Egerton, and drove rapidly to the station.
Hepburn offered to stay in the carriage and mind the horses, and I accepted his offer, although I knew that Ethel thought it making a very free use of a millionaire. Not that Ethel is snobbish, but she has never used millionaires much.
The train came in and this time I took up my place by the ordinary cars, and soon saw the quartette moving along the aisle.
Tom looked out of the window and saw Hepburn sitting erect in the front seat of the picnic wagon holding the unmistakably farm horses, and he exploded into laughter that we outside plainly heard.
“Hello,” said he as soon as he emerged. “Broken him in already. Well, here we are. Better late than never. You know the Benedicts?”
“What a question,” said Ethel, kissing in turn Madge and Mrs. Benedict.
“But we didn’t know Mr. Hepburn,” said she saucily.
“Oh, well, he’s harmless and I’ll bet he came out of it all right. Hello, Crœsus. Stole a march on us, eh?”
“Crœsus” raised his derby, but good driver that he was, kept his eyes on the horses.
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“WELL, Philip, my boy,” said Tom, slapping me on the knee when we were all in our seats, and I had relieved “Crœsus” of the reins, “I suppose it was an unpardonable piece of assurance for me to invite a man you had never seen without letting you know he was coming. And then to let him come up first! That was certainly rubbing it in, but the poor boy doesn’t have a chance to get out much. Sort of a fresh air charity on your part.”
He roared with laughter at this sally of his, and Hepburn smiled faintly.
“This poor boy has always had to do the society act, Philip, and he’s fitted for better things. Hope you haven’t any hops up at your house. Have you any hops?”
“Nor a _cotillon_. In fact, I’m afraid it may be rather dull for one who is accustomed to do something all the time.”
“I’m sure I’ll have a delightful time,” said Hepburn from the second seat. “I’m rather tired. It’ll be a jolly good thing for me.”
“By George, isn’t this a paintable country?” broke in Tom. “If a man could only get the fragrance of this air into his pictures it would be no trouble to get rid of them.”