and Mounseer a
fortnight ago, and Monte Carlo ain't got many secrets from me. I _was_ a
duffer, though, at first. When I 'eerd all them shots poppin' off every
few minutes, up by the Casino, I used to think 'twas the suicides a
shooting theirselves all over the place, for before I left 'ome, I 'ad a
warnin' from my young man that was the kind of goin's on they 'ad here.
But now I know it's only the pigeon shooters, tryin' for prizes, and I
wouldn't eat a pigeon pie in this 'otel, not if 'twas ever so!"

"Do they ever have them?" asked the little girl, awed.

"Not as I knows of, but they may for Christmas. I sye, are you lookin'
forward to your Christmas, kiddy?"

"Angel--that's Mother, I mean--says I'm not going to have much of a
Christmas this year. I'm trying not to mind. I suppose it's because
Santa Claus can't get to the Riviera, with his sleigh and reindeer. How
could he, Miss Jane, when there's no snow, and not even a scrap of ice?"

"Pshaw!" said Miss Jane. "It ain't Santa Claus brings you things, snow
or no snow. Only babies believe that. You're old enough to know better.
It's your father and mother does it all."

"Are you sure?" asked Rosemary.

"Dead sure. Don't be a silly and cry, now, just because there ain't any
Santa Claus, nor any fairies."

"It isn't that," said the little girl. "It's because I can never have
any more Christmases, if it depends on a father. You know, I haven't a
father."

"I supposed you 'adn't, as 'e ain't 'ere, with yer ma," replied the
young person. "She's mighty pretty."

"I think she's the prettiest mother in the world," said Rosemary,
proudly.

"She don't look much like a mother."

The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view. "I
couldn't have a mother who looked any other way," she said. "What do you
think she does look like?"

"Silly puss! I only mean she isn't much more'n a kid, 'erself."

"She's twenty five, twenty whole years more than me. Isn't that old?"

"Lawkes, no. I'm goin' on seventeen myself. I 'avent got any father, no
more'n you 'ave, so I can feel fur you. Your ma 'as to do typewritin'.
Mine does charrin'. It's much the sime thing."

"Is it?" asked Rosemary. "Angel doesn't like typewriting so very well.
It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn't that she minds. It's not having
enough work to do."

"Bless your hinnercent 'eart, charrin' mikes you ache all _over_!
Betcherlife my ma'd chinge with yours if she could."

"Would she? B