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It was after dinner and we were sitting in the little courtyard of the hotel in the dark without our hats—that is, momma and I; the Senator was seldom altogether without his hat. I think he would have felt it to be a little indecent. The courtyard was paved, and there were flowers on the stand in the middle of it, natural palms and artificial begonias mixed with the most annoying cleverness, and little tables for coffee cups or glasses were scattered about. Outside beyond the hotel vestibule one could see and hear Paris rolling by in the gaslight. It was the only place in the hotel that did not smell of furniture, so we frequented it. So did Mr. Malt and Mrs. Malt, and Emmeline Malt, and Miss Callis. That was chiefly how we made the acquaintance of the Malt party. You can't very well sit out in the dark in a foreign capital with a family from your own State and not get to know them. Besides poppa never could overcome his feeling of indebtedness to Mr. Malt. They were taking Emmeline abroad for her health. She was the popular thirteen-year-old only child of American families, and she certainly was thin. I remember being pleased, sometimes, considering her in her typical capacity, that I once had a little brother, though he died before I was born.
The two gentlemen were smoking; we could see nothing but the ends of their cigars glowing in their immediate vicinity. Momma was saying that the situation was very romantic, and Mr. Malt had assured her that it was nothing to what we would experience in Italy. "That's where you get romance," said Mr. Malt, and his cigar end dropped like a falling star as he removed the ash. "Italy's been romantic ever since B.C. All through the time the rest of the world was inventing Magna Chartas and Doomsday Books, and Parliaments, and printing presses, and steam engines, Italy's gone right on turning out romance. Result is, a better quality of that article to be had in Italy to-day than anywhere else. Further result, twenty million pounds spent there annually by tourists from all parts of the civilised world. Romance, like anything else, can be made to pay."
"Are we likely to find the beds——" began Mrs. Malt plaintively.
"Oh dear yes, Mrs. Malt!" interrupted momma, who thought everything entomological extremely indelicate. "Perfectly. You have only to go to the hotels the guide-books recommend, and everything will be quite propre ."
"Well," said Emmeline, "they may be propre in Italy, but they're not propre in Paris. We had to speak to the housemaid yesterday morning, didn't we, mother? Don't you remember the back of my neck?"
"We all suffered!" declared Mrs. Malt.
"And I showed one to her, mother, and all she would say was, ' Jamais ici, mademoiselle, ici, jamais! ' And there it was you know."
"Emmeline," said her father, "isn't it about time for you to want to go to bed?"
"Not by about three hours. I'm going to get up a little music first. Do you play, Mis' Wick?"
Momma said she didn't, and Miss Malt disappeared in search of other performers. "Don't you go asking strangers to play, Emmeline," her mother called after her. "They'll think it forward of you."
"When Emmeline leaves us," said her father, "I always have a kind of abandoned feeling, like a top that's got to the end of its spin."
There was silence for a moment, and then the Senator said he thought he could understand that.
"Well," continued Mr. Malt, "you've had three whole days now. I presume you're beginning to know your way around."
"I think we may say we've made pretty good use of our time," responded the Senator. "This morning we had a look in at the Luxembourg picture gallery, and the Madeleine, and Napoleon's Tomb, and the site of the Bastile. This afternoon we took a run down to Notre Dame Cathedral. That's a very fine building, sir."
"You saw the Morgue, of course, when you were in that direction," remarked Mr. Malt.
"Why no," poppa confessed, "we haven't taken much of liking for live Frenchmen, up to the present, and I don't suppose dead ones would be any more attractive."
"Oh, there's nothing unpleasant," said Mrs. Malt, "nothing that you can notice ."
"Nothing at all," said Mr. Malt. "They refrigerate them, you know. We send our beef to England by the same process——"
"There are people," the Senator interrupted, "who never can see anything amusing in a corpse."
"They don't let you in as a matter of course," Mr. Malt went on. "You have to pretend that you're looking for a relation."
"We had to mention Uncle Sammy," said Mrs. Malt.
"An uncle of Mis' Malt's who went to California in '49 and was never heard of afterward," Mr. Malt explained. "First use he's ever been to his family. Well, there they were, seven of 'em, lying there looking at you yesterday. All in good condition. I was told they have a place downstairs for the older ones."
"Alexander," said momma faintly, "I think I should like a little brandy in my coffee. Were there—were there any ladies among them, Mr. Malt?"
"Three," Mr. Malt responded briskly, "and one of them had her hair——"
"Then please don't tell us about them," momma exclaimed, and the silence that ensued was one of slight indignation on the part of the Malt family.
"You been seeing the town at all, evenings?" Mr. Malt inquired of the Senator.
"I can't say I have. We've been seeing so much of it in the daytime, we haven't felt able to enjoy anything at night except our beds," poppa returned with his accustomed candour.
"Just so. All the same there's a good deal going on in Paris after supper."
"So I've always been told," said the Senator, lighting another cigar.
"They've got what you might call characteristic shows here. You see a lot of life."
"Can you take your ladies?" asked the Senator.
"Well of course you can , but I don't believe they would find it interesting."
"Too much life," said the Senator. "I guess that settles it for me too. I daresay I'm lacking in originality and enterprise, but I generally ask myself about an entertainment, 'Are Mrs. and Miss Wick likely to enjoy it?' If so, well and good. If not, I don't as a rule take it in."
"He's a great comfort that way," remarked momma to Mrs. Malt.
"Oh, I don't frequent them myself," said Mr. Malt defensively.
"Talking of improprieties," remarked Miss Callis, "have you seen the New Salon?"
There was something very unexpected about Miss Callis; momma complained of it. Her remarks were never polished by reflection. She called herself a child of nature, but she really resided in Brooklyn.
The Senator said we had not.
"Then don't you go, Mr. Wick. There's a picture there——"
"We never look at such pictures, Miss Callis," momma interrupted.
"It's so French," said Miss Callis.
Momma drew her shawl round her preparatory to withdrawing, but it was too late.
"Too French for words," continued Miss Callis. "The poet Lamartine, with a note-book and pencil in his hand, seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn through the clouds by beautiful Muses."
"Oh," said momma, in a relieved voice, "there's nothing so dreadfully French about that."
"You should have seen it," said Miss Callis. "It was simply immoral. Lamartine was in a frock coat!"
"There could have been nothing objectionable in that," momma repeated. "I suppose the Muses——"
"The Muses were not in frock coats. They were dressed in their traditions," replied Miss Callis, "but they couldn't save the situation, poor dears."
Momma looked as if she wished she had the courage to ask Miss Callis to explain.
"In picture galleries," remarked poppa, "we've seen only the Luxembourg and the Louvre. The Louvre, I acknowledge, is worthy of a second visit. But I don't believe we'll have time to get round again."
"We've got to get a hustle on ourselves in a day or two," said Mr. Malt, as we separated for the night. "There's all Italy and Switzerland waiting for us, and they're bound to be done, because we've got circular tickets. But there's something about this town that I hate to leave."
"He doesn't know whether it's the Arc de Triomphe on the Bois de Boulogne or the Opera Comique, or what," said Mrs. Malt in affectionate criticism. "But we've been here a week over our time now, and he doesn't seem able to tear himself away."
"I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed Mr. Malt, producing a newspaper, "it's this little old New York Herald . There's no use comparing it with any American newspaper, and it wouldn't be fair to do so; but I wonder these French rags, in a foreign tongue, aren't ashamed to be published in the same capital with it. It doesn't take above a quarter of an hour to read in the mornings, but it's a quarter of an hour of solid comfort that you don't expect somehow abroad. If the New York Herald were only published in Rome I wouldn't mind going there."
"There's something," said poppa, thoughtfully, as we ascended to the third floor, "in what Malt says."
Next day we spent an hour buying trunks for the accommodation of the unattainable elsewhere. Then poppa reminded us that we had an important satisfaction yet to experience. "Business before pleasure," he said, "certainly. But we've been improving our minds pretty hard for the last few days, and I feel the need of a little relaxation. D.V. and W.P., I propose this afternoon to make the ascent of the Eiffel Tower. Are you on?"
"I will accompany you, Alexander, if it is safe," said momma, "and, if it is unsafe, I couldn't possibly let you go without me."
Momma is naturally a person of some timidity, but when the Senator proposes to incur any danger, she always suggests that he shall do it over her dead body.
I forget where we were at the time, but I know that we had only to walk through the perpetual motion of Paris, across a bridge, and down a few steps on the other side, to find the little steamer that took us by the river to the Tower. We might have gone by omnibus or by fiacre, but if we had we should never have known what a street the Seine is, sliding through Paris, brown in the open sun, dark under the shadowing arches of the bridges, full of hastening comers and goers from landing-place to landing-place, up and down. It gave us quite a new familiarity with the river, which had been before only a part of the landscape, and one of the things that made Paris imposing. We saw that it was a highway of traffic, and that the little, brisk, business-like steamers were full of people, who went about in them because it was the cheapest and most convenient way, and not at all for the pleasure of a trip by water. We noticed, too, a difference in these river-going people. Some of them carried baskets, and some of them read the Petit Journal , and they all comfortably submitted to the good-natured bullying of the mariner in charge. There were elderly women in black, with a button or two off their tight bodices, and children with patched shoes carrying an assortment of vegetables, and middle-aged men in slouch hats, smoking tobacco that would have been forbidden by public statute anywhere else. They all treated us with a respect and consideration which we had not observed in the Avenue de l'Opera, and I noticed the Senator visibly expanding in it. There was also a man and a little boy, and a dog, all lunching out of the same basket. Afterward, on being requested to do so, the dog performed tricks—French ones—to the enjoyment and satisfaction of all three. There was a great deal of politeness and good feeling, and if they were not Capi and Remi and Vitalis in " Sans Famille ," it was merely because their circumstances were different.
As we stood looking at the Eiffel Tower, poppa said he thought if he were in my place he wouldn't describe it. "It's old news," he said, "and there's nothing the general public dislike so much as that. Every hotel-porter in Chicago knows that it's three hundred metres high, and that you can see through it all the way up. There it is, and I feel as if I'd passed my boyhood in its shadow. That way I must say it's a disappointment. I was expecting it to be more unexpected, if you understand."
Momma and I quite agreed. It had the familiarity of a demonstration of Euclid, and to the non-engineering mind was about as interesting. The Senator felt so well acquainted with it that he hesitated about buying a descriptive pamphlet. "They want to sell a stranger too much information in this country," he said. "The meanest American intelligence is equal to stepping into an elevator and stepping out again." But he bought one nevertheless, and was particularly pleased with it, not only because it was the cheapest thing in Paris at five cents, but because, as he said himself, it contained an amount of enthusiasm not usually available at any price.
The Senator thought, as we entered the elevator at the first story, that the accommodation compared very well indeed with anything in his experience. He had only one criticism—there was no smoking-room. We had a slight difficulty with momma at the second story—she did not wish to change her elevator. Inside she said she felt perfectly secure, but the tower itself she knew must waggle at that height when once you stepped out. In the end, however, we persuaded her not to go down before she had made the ascent, and she rose to the top with her eyes shut. When we finally got out, however, the sight of numbers of young ladies selling Eiffel Tower mementoes steadied her nerves. She agreed with poppa that business premises would never let on anything but the most stable basis.
"It's exactly as Bramley said," remarked the Senator. "You're up so high that the scenery, so far as Paris is concerned, becomes perfectly ridiculous. It might as well be a map."
" Don't look over, Alexander," said momma. "It will fill you with a wild desire to throw yourself down. It is said always to have that effect."
"'The past ends in this plain at your feet,'" quoted poppa critically from the guide-book, "'the future will there be fulfilled.' I suppose they did feel a bit uppish when they'd got as high as this—but you'd think France was about the only republic at present doing business, wouldn't you?"
I pointed out the Pantheon down below and St. Etienne du Mont, and poppa was immediately filled with a poignant regret that we had spent so much time seeing public buildings on foot. "Whereas," said he, "from our present point of view we could have done them all in ten minutes. As it is, we shall be in a position to say we've seen everything there is to be seen in Paris. Bramley won't be able to tell us it's a pity we've missed anything. However," he continued, "we must be conscientious about it. I've no desire to play it low down on Bramley. Let us walk round and pick out the places of interest he's most likely to expect to catch us on, and look at them separately. I should hate to think I wasn't telling the truth about a thing like that."
We walked round and specifically observed the "Ecole des Beaux Arts," the "Palais d'Industrie," "Liberty Enlightening the World," and other objects, poppa carefully noting against each of them "seen from Eiffel Tower." As we made our way to the river side we noticed four other people, two ladies and two gentlemen, looking at the military balloon hanging over Meudon. They all had their backs to us, and there was to me something dissimilarly familiar about three of those backs. While I was trying to analyse it one of the gentlemen turned, and caught sight of poppa. In another instant the highest elevation yet made by engineering skill was the scene of three impetuous American handclasps, and four impulsive American voices were saying, "Why how do you do!" The gentleman was Mr. Richard Dod of Chicago, known to our family without interruption since he wore long clothes. Mr. Dod had come into his patrimony and simultaneously disappeared in the direction of Europe six months before, since when we had only heard vaguely that he had lost most of it, but was inalterably cheerful; and there was nobody, apparently, he expected so little or desired so much to see in Paris as the Senator, momma and me. Poppa called him "Dick, my boy," momma called him "my dear Dicky," I called him plain "Dick," and when this had been going on for, possibly, five minutes, the older and larger of the two ladies of the party swung round with a majesty I at once associated with my earlier London experiences, and regarded us through her pince nez . There was no mistaking her disapproval. I had seen it before. We were Americans and she was Mrs. Portheris of Half Moon-street, Piccadilly. I saw that she recognised me and was trying to make up her mind whether, in view of the complication of Mr. Dod, to bow or not. But the woman who hesitates is lost, even though she be a British matron of massive prejudices and a figure to match. In Mrs. Portheris's instant of vacillation, I stepped forward with such enthusiasm that she was compelled to take down her pince nez and hold out a superior hand. I took it warmly, and turned to my parents with a joy which was not in the least affected. "Momma," I exclaimed, "try to think of the very last person who would naturally cross your mind—our relation, Mrs. Portheris. Poppa, allow me to introduce you to your aunt—Mrs. Portheris. Your far distant nephew from Chicago, Mr. Joshua Peter Wick.
It was a moment to be remembered—we all said so afterwards. Everything hung upon Mrs. Portheris's attitude. But it was immediately evident that Mrs. Portheris considered parents of any kind excusable, even commendable! Her manner said as much—it also implied, however, that she could not possibly be held responsible for transatlantic connections by a former marriage. Momma was nervous, but collected. She bowed a distant Wastgaggle bow, an heirloom in the family, which gave Mrs. Portheris to understand that if any cordiality was to characterise the occasion, it would have to emanate from her. Besides, Mrs. Portheris was poppa's relation, and would naturally have to be guarded against. Poppa, on the other hand, was cordiality itself—he always is.
"Why, is that so?" said poppa, looking earnestly at Mrs. Portheris and firmly retaining her hand. "Is this my very own Aunt Caroline?"
"At one time," responded Mrs. Portheris with a difficult smile, "and, I fear, by marriage only."
"Ah, to be sure, to be sure! Poor Uncle Jimmy gave place to another. But we won't say anything more about that. Especially as you've been equally unfortunate with your second," said poppa sympathetically. "Well, I'm sure I'm pleased to meet you—glad to shake you by the hand." He gave that member one more pressure as he spoke and relinquished it.
"It is extremely unlooked for," replied his Aunt Caroline, and looked at Mr. Dod, who quailed, as if he were in some way responsible for it. "I confess I am not in the habit of meeting my connections promiscuously abroad." When we came to analyse the impropriety of this it was difficult, but we felt as a family very disreputable at the time. Mr. Dod radiated sympathy for us. Poppa looked concerned.
"The fact is," said he, "we ought to have called on you at your London residence, Aunt Caroline. And if we had been able to make a more protracted stay than just about long enough, as you might say, to see what time it was, we would have done so. But you see how it was."
"Pray don't mention it," said Mrs. Portheris. "It is very unlikely that I should have been at home."
"Then that's all right," poppa replied with relief.
"London has so many monuments," murmured Dicky Dod, regarding Mrs. Portheris's impressive back. "It is quite impossible to visit them all."
"The view from here," our relation remarked in a leave-taking tone, "is very beautiful, is it not?"
"It's very extensive," replied poppa, "but I notice the inhabitants round about seem to think it embraces the biggest part of civilisation. I admit it's a good-sized view, but that's what I call enlarging upon it."
"Come, Mr. Dod," commanded Mrs. Portheris, "we must rejoin the rest of our party. They are on the other side."
"Certainly," said Dicky. "But you must give me your address, Mrs. Wick. Thanks. And there now! I've been away from Illinois a good long time, but I'm not going to forget to congratulate Chicago on getting you once more into the United States Senate, Mr. Wick. I did what I could in my humble way, you know."
"I know you did, Richard," returned poppa warmly, "and if there's any little Consulship in foreign parts that it would amuse you to fill——"
Mrs. Portheris, in the act of exchanging unemotional farewells with mamma, turned round. "Do I understand that you are now a Senator ?" she inquired. "I had no idea of it. It is certainly a distinction—an American distinction, of course—but you can't help that. It does you credit. I trust you will use your influence to put an end to the Mormons."
"As far as that goes," poppa returned with deprecation, "I believe my business does take me to the Capitol pretty regularly now. But I'd be sorry to think any more of myself on that account. Your nephew, Aunt Caroline, is just the same plain American he was before."
"I hope you will vote to exterminate them," continued Mrs. Portheris with decision. "Dear me! A Senator—I suppose you must have a great deal of influence in your own country! Ah, here are the truants! We might all go down in the lift together."
The truants appeared looking conscious. One of them, when he saw me, looked astonished as well, and I cannot say that I myself was perfectly unmoved when I realised that it was Mr. Mafferton! There was no reason why Mr. Mafferton should not have been at the top of the Eiffel Tower in the society of Mrs. Portheris, Mr. Dod, and another, that afternoon, but for the moment it seemed to me uniquely amazing. We shook hands, however—it was the only thing to do—and Mr. Mafferton said this was indeed a surprise as if it were the most ordinary thing possible. Mrs. Portheris looked on at our greeting with an air of objecting to things she had not been taught to expect, and remarked that she had no idea Mr. Mafferton was one of my London acquaintances. "But then," she continued in a tone of just reproach, "I saw so little of you during your season in town that you might have made the Queen's acquaintance and all the Royal Family, and I should have been none the wiser."
It was too much to expect of one's momma that she should let an opportunity like that slip, and mine took hold of it with both hands.
"I believe my daughter did make Victoria's acquaintance, Mrs. Portheris," said she, "and we were all very pleased about it. Your Queen has a very good reputation in our country. We think her a wise sovereign and a perfect lady. I suppose you often go to her Drawing Rooms."
Mrs. Portheris wore the expression of one passing through the Stone Age to a somewhat more mobile period. "I really think," she said, "I should have been made aware of that. To have had a young relative presented without one's knowledge seems too extraordinary. No," she continued, turning to poppa, "the only thing I heard of this young lady—it came to me in a very roundabout manner—was that she had gone home to be married . Was not that your intention?" asked Mrs. Portheris, turning to me.
"It was," I said. There was nothing else to say.
"Then may I inquire if you fulfilled it?"
"I didn't, Mrs. Portheris," said I. I was very red, but not so red as Mr. Mafferton. "Circumstances interfered." I was prepared for an inquiry as to what the circumstances were, and privately made up my mind that Mrs. Portheris was too distant a relation to be gratified with such information in the publicity of the Eiffel Tower. But she merely looked at me with suspicion, and said it was much better that young people should discover their unsuitability to one another before marriage than after. "I can conceive nothing more shocking than divorce," said Mrs. Portheris, and her tone indicated that I had probably narrowly escaped it.
We were rather a large party as we made our way to the elevator, and I found myself behind the others in conversation with Dicky Dod. It was a happiness to come thus unexpectedly upon Dicky Dod—he gave forth all that is most exhilarating in our democratic civilisation, and he was in excellent spirits. As the young lady of Mrs. Portheris's party joined us I thought I found a barometric reading in Mr. Dod's countenance that explained the situation. "I remember you," she said shyly, and there was something in this innocent audacity and the blush which accompanied it that helped me to remember her too. "You came to see mamma in Half Moon-street once. I am Isabel."
"Dear me!" I replied, "so you are. I remember—you had to go upstairs, hadn't you. Please don't mind," I went on hastily as Isabel looked distressed, "you couldn't help it. I was very unexpected, and I might have been dangerous. How—how you've grown !" I really couldn't think of anything else to say.
Isabel blushed again, Dicky observing with absorbed adoration. It was lovely colour. "You know I haven't really," she said, "it's all one's long frocks and doing up one's hair, you know."
"Miss Portheris only came out two months ago," remarked Mr. Dod, with the effect of announcing that Venus had just arisen from the foam.
"Come, young people," Mrs. Portheris exclaimed from the lift; "we are waiting for you." Poppa and momma and Mr. Mafferton were already inside. Mrs. Portheris stood in the door. As Isabel entered, I saw that Mr. Dod was making the wildest efforts to communicate something to me with his left eye.
"Come, young people," repeated Mrs. Portheris.
"Do you think it's safe for so many?" asked Dicky doubtfully. "Suppose anything should give , you know!"
Mrs. Portheris looked undecided. Momma, from the interior, immediately proposed to get out.
"Safe as a church," remarked the Senator.
"What do you mean, Dod?" demanded Mr. Mafferton.
"Well, it's like this," said Dicky; "Miss Wick is rather nervous about overcrowding, and I think it's better to run no risks myself. You all go down, and we'll follow you next trip. See?"
"I suppose you will hardly allow that , Mrs. Wick," said our relation, with ominous portent.
" Est ce que vous voulez à déscendre, monsieur? " inquired the official attached to the elevator, with some impatience.
"I don't see what there is to object to—I suppose it would be safer," momma replied anxiously, and the official again demanded if we were going down.
"Not this trip, thank you," said Dicky, and turned away. Mrs. Portheris, who had taken her seat, rose with dignity. "In that case," said she, "I also will remain at the top;" but her determination arrived too late. With a ferocious gesture the little official shut the door and gave the signal, and Mrs. Portheris sank earthwards, a vision of outraged propriety. I felt sorry for momma.
"And now," I inquired of Mr. Dod, "why was the elevator not safe?"
"I'll tell you," said Dicky. "Do you know Mrs. Portheris well?"
"Very slightly indeed," I replied.
"Not well enough to—sort of chum up with our party, I suppose."
"Not for worlds," said I.
Dicky looked so disconsolate that I was touched.
"Still," I said, "you'd better trot out the circumstances, Dicky. We haven't forgotten what you did in your humble way, you know, at election time. I can promise for the family that we'll do anything we can. You mustn't ask us to poison her, but we might lead her into the influenza."
"It's this way," said Mr. Dod. "How remarkably contracted the Place de la Concorde looks down there, doesn't it! It's like looking through the wrong end of an opera glass."
"I've observed that," I said. "It won't be fair to keep them waiting very long down there on the earth, you know, Dicky."
"Certainly not! Well, as I was saying, your poppa's Aunt Caroline is a perfect fiend of a chaperone. By Jove, Mamie, let's be silhouetted!"
"Poppa was silhouetted," I said, "and the artist turned him out the image of Senator Frye. Now he doesn't resemble Senator Frye in the least degree. The elevator is ascending, Richard."
Richard blushed and looked intently at the horizon beyond Montmartre.
"You see, between Miss Portheris and me, it's this way," he began recklessly, but with the vision before my eyes of momma on the steps below wanting her tea, I cut him short.
"So far as you are concerned, Dicky, I see the way it is," I interposed sympathetically. "The question is——"
"Exactly. So it is. About Isabel. But I can't find out. It seems to be so difficult with an English girl. Doesn't seem to think such a thing as a—a proposal exists. Now an American girl is just as ready——"
"Richard," I interrupted severely, "the circumstances do not require international comparisons. By the way, how do you happen to be travelling with—with Mr. Mafferton?"
"That's exactly where it comes in," Mr. Dod exclaimed luminously. "You'd think, the way Mafferton purrs round the old lady, he'd been a friend of the family from the beginning of time! Fact is, he met them two days before they left London. I had known them a good month, and the venerable one seemed to take to me considerably. There wasn't a cab she wouldn't let me call, nor a box at the theatre she wouldn't occupy, nor a supper she wouldn't try to enjoy. Used to ask me to tea. Inquired whether I was High or Low. That was awful, because I had to chance it, being Congregational, but I hit it right—she's Low, too, strong. Isabel always made the tea out of a canister the old lady kept locked. Singular habit that, locking tea up in a canister."
"You are wandering, Dicky," I said. "And Isabel used to ask you whether you would have muffins or brown bread and butter—I know. Go on."
"Girls have intuition," remarked Mr. Dod with a glance of admiration which I discounted with contempt. "Well, then old Mafferton turned up here a week ago. Since then I haven't been waltzing in as I did before. Old lady seems to think there's a chance of keeping the family pure English—seems to think she'd like it better—see? At least, I take it that way; he's cousin to a lord," Dick added dejectedly, "and you know financially I've been coming through a cold season."
"It's awkward," I admitted, "but old ladies of no family are like that over here. I know Mrs. Portheris is an old lady of no family, because she's a connection of ours, you see. What about Isabel? Can't you tell the least bit?"
"How can a fellow? She blushes just as much when he speaks to her as when I do."
"But are you quite sure," I asked delicately, "whether Mr. Mafferton is—interested?"
"There's the worst kind of danger of it," Dicky replied impressively. "I don't know whether I ought to tell you, but the fact is Mafferton's just got the sack—I beg your pardon—just been congéed himself. They say she was an American and it was a bad case; she behaved most unfeelingly."
"You shouldn't believe all you hear," I said, "but I don't see what that has to do with it."
"Why, he's just in the mood to console himself. What fellow would think twice of being thrown over, if Miss Portheris were the alternative!"
"It depends, Dicky," I observed. "You are jumping at conclusions."
"What I hoped," he went on regretfully as we took our places in the elevator, "was that we might travel together a bit and that you wouldn't mind just now and then taking old Mafferton off our hands, you know."
"Dicky," I said, as we swiftly descended, "here is our itinerary. Genoa, you see, then Pisa, Rome, Naples, Rome again, Florence, Venice, Verona, up through the lakes to Switzerland, and so on. We leave to-morrow. If we should meet again, I don't promise to undertake it personally, but I'll see what momma can do."
