In the excitement of the new idea, the disappointment over the prohibited foreign travel vanished from their hearts. Once more they contemplated their vagabondage, with the single-mindedness of children.
“We’ll start to-morrow,” he declared.
“To-morrow evening is the Rowingtons’ dinner-party,” Olivia reminded him.
He confounded Rowington and his dinner-party. Why not send a telegram saying he was down with smallpox? He hated literary dinner-parties. Why should he make an ass of himself in a lion’s skin—just to gratify the vanity of a publisher? Olivia administered the required corrective.
“Isn’t it rather a case of the lion putting on an ass’s skin, my dear? Of course we must go.”
He laughed. “I suppose we must. Anyway, we’ll start the day after. I’ll see about the car in the morning.
