Tom jested at his reluctance. “Why, are you afraid of becoming entangled in Gloria’s celebrated eyelashes?” “No, I’m not afraid of that,” Felix said. Tom laughed and put his hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Think, they bring us news of the great world: London! Paris! Doesn’t that stir you?” “No,” Felix retorted, “for I don’t believe it. They bring back what they took with them.” “Wait and see! I hear rumours that Gloria has become fearfully cosmopolitan.” When Gloria and Madge stepped from the train, it was evident, even to so careless an observer as Felix, that they had been at least outwardly transformed. Every woman in Port Royal was wearing the wide-flaring “Merry Widow” hat; and these girls wore small close-fitting hats—Gloria’s being a jaunty little flower-confection, and Madge’s a tiny straw turban set off by a perky feather. “Dear old Tom,” said Gloria, embracing him affectionately. “Too busy to come to town to see old friends, so old friends have to come see him. Busy writing great novel?” “More or less,” Tom answered, and they started back up the road. “How’s Europe?” “We tore ourselves from the arms of doting relatives to come and tell you—When one’s been all over the world, what’s a few miles more? ... even when it means getting one’s new Paris shoes all dusty! Have you noticed them, Tom?” She paused on one toe and looked down sidewise admiringly at her foot. “I noticed a generally exotic effect,” Tom admitted. “Tan suede!” Gloria explained. “And then, our blouses. Something quite new. And—but mustn’t talk to great philosopher about such frivolous things. Must talk about art and socialism. There are lots of socialists over there, in France and Germany—and even in England!” “So you found that out,” Tom observed. “Now I suppose you regard socialism as quite respectable.” “Oh, most respectable. But just as hard to understand as ever! Though I was able, when I talked to some of them at the Countess of Berwick’s tea, to appear quite intelligent on the subject, on account of having listened to you. I used ‘proletarian’ and ‘proletariat’ without once getting them mixed.” “The Countess of Berwick! Our little Gloria flew high, didn’t she?”