hing like, isn't it?" They stood for a while looking out in
silence, and then the young man continued: "By the way, I've got a
message for you: the Countess Olenska expects us both at half-past
five."

He said it lightly, carelessly, as he might have imparted any casual
item of information, such as the hour at which their train was to leave
for Florence the next evening. Archer looked at him, and thought he
saw in his gay young eyes a gleam of his great-grandmother Mingott's
malice.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Dallas pursued. "Fanny made me swear to do
three things while I was in Paris: get her the score of the last
Debussy songs, go to the Grand-Guignol and see Madame Olenska. You
know she was awfully good to Fanny when Mr. Beaufort sent her over from
Buenos Ayres to the Assomption. Fanny hadn't any friends in Paris, and
Madame Olenska used to be kind to her and trot her about on holidays.
I believe she was a great friend of the first Mrs. Beaufort's. And
she's our cousin, of course. So I rang her up this morning, before I
went out, and told her you and I were here for two days and wanted to
see her."

Archer continued to stare at him. "You told her I was here?"

"Of course--why not?" Dallas's eye brows went up whimsically. Then,
getting no answer, he slipped his arm through his father's with a
confidential pressure.

"I say, father: what was she like?"

Archer felt his colour rise under his son's unabashed gaze. "Come, own
up: you and she were great pals, weren't you? Wasn't she most awfully
lovely?"

"Lovely? I don't know. She was different."

"Ah--there you have it! That's what it always comes to, doesn't it?
When she comes, SHE'S DIFFERENT--and one doesn't know why. It's
exactly what I feel about Fanny."

His father drew back a step, releasing his arm. "About Fanny? But, my
dear fellow--I should hope so! Only I don't see--"

"Dash it, Dad, don't be prehistoric! Wasn't she--once--your Fanny?"

Dallas belonged body and soul to the new generation. He was the
first-born of Newland and May Archer, yet it had never been possible to
inculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve. "What's the use of
making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out," he
always objected when enjoined to discretion. But Archer, meeting his
eyes, saw the filial light under their banter.

"My Fanny?"

"Well, the woman you'd have chucked everything for: only you didn't,"
continued his surprisin