Pfingst had invited the entire cast to have lunch on
his yacht.
"Not for me!" said Eleanor, sipping her coffee between yawns. "I am going
straight back to bed and sleep all day."
"Morning megrims!" cried Papa Claude, fresher than the proverbial daisy.
"What you need is a frolic with old Neptune! We bathe at eleven, go
aboard the _Minta_ at twelve, lunch at one. Pfingst's chef is an artist;
he can create a lobster Newburg that is an epic!" Papa Claude's tongue
made the circle of his lips as he spoke.
"I don't like lobster," Eleanor pouted; "and, what's more, I don't like
Mr. Pfingst."
"Nonsense, my love! Pfingst is a prince of good fellows. Very
generous--very generous indeed. Besides, there will be others on
board--Harold and Estelle and myself."
Eleanor laid her face against his sleeve.
"I wish you and I could run off somewhere for the day alone. I am so sick
of seeing those same people day in and day out. They never talk about
anything but themselves."
Papa Claude stroked her hair and smiled tolerantly. It was natural that
his little Eleanor should be capricious and variable and addicted to
moods. She was evidently acquiring temperament.
Pages:
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382