"How _very_ romantic!" ran a part of it. "I am _mad_ about your
nobleman! Isn't it _wonderful_ to have such unique and thrilling
adventures? I suppose you hung things up on the walls of the cave and
built a delightfully smoky fire and that the Hungarian--_bless_ his
heart!--trimmed his corduroy suit with an ancestral stiletto, and paid
his courtly respects to the beautiful gypsy hermit and fell
_desperately_ in love with her, as well he might. I would _myself_!
"Diane, I simply _must_ see him! I'm dying for a new sensation. Ever
since Baron Tregar's car was stolen from the farm garage and his
handsome secretary _mysteriously_ disappeared (by the way, it's Philip
Poynter--Carl knows him--do you?) and then reappeared with a most
unsatisfactory explanation which didn't in the least explain where he
had been--only to up and disappear again as strangely as before, and
the _very_ next morning--life has been terribly monotonous. And mother
had a rustic seizure and made us stay at the farm _all_ summer.
Imagine! Dick's aeroplaned the tops off _all_ the trees!
"_Do_ beg your Hungarian to join us at Palm Beach in January. It would
be _most interesting_ and novel and I'll _swear_ on the ancestral
stiletto to preserve his incognito! You remember you solemnly promised
to come to me in January, no matter _where_ you were! My enthusiasm
grows as I write--it always does.
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