are all earnest in helping each other. My friend sang for
nothing at my concert. Don't suppose for a moment that he expects it of
me! But I am going to play for nothing at his concert. May I appeal to
your kind patronage to take two tickets?" The reply ended appropriately
in musical sound--a golden tinkling, in Mr. Le Frank's pocket.

Having paid his tribute to art and artists, Mr. Gallilee looked
furtively at Miss Minerva. On the wise principle of letting well alone,
he perceived that the happy time had arrived for leaving the room. How
was he to make his exit? He prided himself on his readiness of resource,
in difficulties of this sort, and he was equal to the occasion as
usual--he said he would go to his club.

"We really have a capital smoking-room at that club," he said. "I do
like a good cigar; and--what do _you_ think Mr. Le Frank?--isn't a pint
of champagne nice drinking, this hot weather? Just cooled with ice--I
don't know whether you feel the weather, Miss Minerva, as I do?--and
poured, fizzing, into a silver mug. Lord, how delicious! Good-bye,
girls. Give me a kiss before I go."

Maria led the way, as became the elder. She not only gave the kiss, but
threw an appropriate sentiment into the bargain. "I do love you,
dear papa!" said this perfect daughter--with a look in Miss Minerva's
direction, which might have been a malicious look in any eyes but
Maria's.

Mr. Gallilee turned to his youngest child. "Well, Zo--what do _you_
say?"

Zo took her father's hand once more, and rubbed her head against it like
a cat. This new method of expressing filial affection seemed to interest
Mr. Gallilee. "Does your head itch, my dear?" he asked. The idea was new
to Zo. She brightened, and looked at her father with a sly smile. "Why
do you do it?" Miss Minerva asked sharply. Zo clouded over again, and
answered, "I don't know." Mr. Gallilee rewarded her with a kiss, and
went away to champagne and the club.

Mr. Le Frank left the schoolroom next. He paid the governess the
compliment of reverting to her narrative of events at the concert.

"I am greatly struck," he said, "by what you told me about Mr. Ovid
Vere. We may, perhaps, have misjudged him in thinking that he doesn't
like music. His coming to my concert suggests a more cheering view. Do
you think there would be any impropriety in my calling to thank him?
Perhaps it would be better if I wrote, and enclosed two tickets for my
friend's concert? To tell you the truth