"Your mother," continued
Alicia, "invites us to make a visit to the farm. I have never seen a
farm. We will go there for a week or two, Robert."
"We will," said Robert, with the grand air of an associate Supreme
Justice concurring in an opinion. "I did not lay the invitation
before you because I thought you would not care to go. I am much
pleased at your decision."
"I will write to her myself," answered Alicia, with a faint
foreshadowing of enthusiasm. "Felice shall pack my trunks at once.
Seven, I think, will be enough. I do not suppose that your mother
entertains a great deal. Does she give many house parties?"
Robert arose, and as attorney for rural places filed a demurrer
against six of the seven trunks. He endeavored to define, picture,
elucidate, set forth and describe a farm. His own words sounded
strange in his ears. He had not realized how thoroughly urbsidized
he had become.
A week passed and found them landed at the little country station
five hours out from the city. A grinning, stentorian, sarcastic youth
driving a mule to a spring wagon hailed Robert savagely.
"Hallo, Mr. Walmsley. Found your way back at last, have you? Sorry
I couldn't bring in the automobile for you, but dad's bull-tonguing
the ten-acre clover patch with it to-day. Guess you'll excuse my not
wearing a dress suit over to meet you--it ain't six o'clock yet, you
know."
"I'm glad to see you, Tom," said Robert, grasping his brother's hand.
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