She only ejaculated, “Why, Mr. Flack, where did you drop from?”

“Well, this is a good place to meet,” her father remarked, as if mildly, and as a mere passing suggestion, to deprecate explanations.

“Any place is good where one meets old friends,” said George Flack, looking also at the newspapers. He examined the date of the American sheet and then put it down. “Well, how do you like Paris?” he went on to the young lady.

“We quite enjoy it; but of course we’re familiar now.”

“Well, I was in hopes I could show you something,” Mr. Flack said.

“I guess they’ve seen most everything,” Mr. Dosson observed.

“Well, we’ve seen more than you!” exclaimed his daughter.

“Well, I’ve seen a good deal—just sitting there.”

A person with a delicate ear might have suspected Mr. Dosson of saying “setting;” but he would pronounce the same word in a different manner at different times.

“Well, in Paris you can see everything,” said the young man. “I’m quite enthusiastic about Paris.”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Miss Delia asked.

“Oh, yes, but it’s ever fresh. And how is Miss Francie?”

“She’s all right. She has gone up stairs to get something; we are going out again.”

“It’s very attractive for the young,” said Mr. Dosson to the visitor.

“Well, then, I’m one of the young. Do you mind if I go with you?” Mr. Flack continued, to the girl.

“It’ll seem like old times, on the deck,” she replied. “We’re going to the Bon Marché.”

“Why don’t you go to the Louvre? It’s much better.”

“We have just come from there: we have had quite a morning.”

“Well, it’s a good place,” the visitor continued.

“It’s good for some things but it doesn’t come up to my idea for others.”

“Oh, they’ve seen everything,” said Mr. Dosson. Then he added, “I guess I’ll go and call Francie.”

“Well, tell her to hurry,” Miss Delia returned, swinging a glove in each hand.

“She knows my pace,” Mr. Flack remarked.

“I should think she would, the way you raced!” the girl ejaculated, with memories of the Umbria. “I hope you don’t expect to rush round Paris that way.”

“I always rush. I live in a rush. That’s the way to get through.”

“Well, I am through, I guess,” said Mr. Dosson, philosophically.

“Well, I ain’t!” his daughter declared, with decision.

“Well, you must come round often,” the old gentleman continued, as a leave-taking.

“Oh, I’ll come round! I’ll have to rush, but I’ll do it.”

“I’ll send down Francie.” And Francie’s father crept away.

“And please to give her some more money!” her sister called after him.

“Does she keep the money?” George Flack inquired.

“Keep it?” Mr. Dosson stopped as he pushed aside the portière. “Oh, you innocent young man!”

“I guess it’s the first time you were ever called innocent,” Delia remarked, left alone with the visitor.

“Well, I was—before I came to Paris.”

“Well, I can’t see that it has hurt us. We are not extravagant.”

“Wouldn’t you have a right to be?”

“I don’t think any one has a right to be.”

The young man, who had seated himself, looked at her a moment. “That’s the way you used to talk.”

“Well, I haven’t changed.”

“And Miss Francie—has she?”

“Well, you’ll see,” said Delia Dosson, beginning to draw on her gloves.

Her companion watched her, leaning forward with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands interlocked. At last he said, interrogatively: “Bon Marché?”

“No, I got them in a little place I know.”

“Well, they’re Paris, anyway.”

“Of course they’re Paris. But you can get gloves anywhere.”

“You must show me the little place, anyhow,” Mr. Flack continued, sociably. And he observed further, with the same friendliness—“The old gentleman seems all there.”

“Oh, he’s the dearest of the dear.”

“He’s a real gentleman—of the old stamp,” said George Flack.

“Well, what should you think our father would be?”

“I should think he would be delighted!”

“Well, he is, when we carry out our plans.”

“And what are they—your plans?” asked the young man.

“Oh, I never tell them.”

“How then does he know whether you carry them out?”

“Well, I guess he’d know it if we didn’t,” said the girl.

“I remember how secretive you were last year. You kept everything to yourself.”

“Well, I know what I want,” the young lady pursued.

He watched her button one of her gloves, deftly, with a hairpin which she disengaged from some mysterious function under her bonnet.