“So it will. But that’s a trifle. I had half promised to spend July at the White Sulphur, but that can wait for another July. Now you are to tell me goodby a few minutes hence and ride away. For I must write a note to Dorothy--no, on second thoughts I’ll drive over and see her and Aunt Polly, and you are to remain here and dine with brother. Dorothy and I are going to talk about clothes, and we shan’t want any men folk around. I’ll dine at Wyanoke, and by tomorrow we’ll have half a dozen seamstresses at work making things enough to last us to Baltimore.” “But tell me, Edmonia,” said Arthur, beginning to think of practical things, “can you and Dorothy travel alone?” “We could, if it were necessary. You know I’ve been abroad twice and I know ‘the tricks and the manners’ of Europe. But it will not be necessary. I enjoy the advantage of having been educated at Le Febvre’s School, in Richmond. That sort of thing has its compensations. Among them is the fact that it is apt to locate one’s friendships variously as to place. I have a schoolmate in New York--a schoolmate of five or six years ago, and a very dear friend--Mildred Livingston. She is married and rich and restless. She likes nothing so much as travel and I happen to know that she is just now planning a trip to Europe. I’ll write to her today and we’ll go together. As her husband, Nicholas Van Rensselaer Livingston, hasn’t anything else to do he’ll go along just to look after the baggage and swear in English, which they don’t understand, at the Continental porters and their kind. He’s really very good at that sort of thing.” “It is well for a man to be good at something.” “Yes, isn’t it? I’ve often said so to Mildred. Besides he worships the ground--or the carpets, rather,--that she walks on. For he never lets her put her foot on the ground if he can help it. He’s a dear fellow--in his way--and Mildred is really fond of him--especially when he’s looking after the tickets and the baggage. Now you must let me run away. You are to stay here and dine with brother, you know.” XXV AUNT POLLY’S VIEW OF THE RISKS