CHAPTER XVIIIHilary, with only a delighted woman of sixty for her companion, had exactly seventeen enchanting days in Paris, three in Switzerland, and fourteen in Spain. The new laced shoes with rubber soles needed mending, and the new brown coat needed a new pocket and a trip to the cleaner by the time that, exhausted with pleasure, she came smiling aboard the Olympic at Cherbourg in the romantic twilight of a mellow March evening for the trip home. Hilary had tramped, poked, investigated everywhere; she felt herself insatiable for travel.
“It must be my mother’s French blood,” she said, animatedly, to the elderly English surgeon, and his young son who were changing all preconceived ideas about American women because of her, and to the French colonel with one arm who was seriously consid
