the pointed tips of her patent-leather slippers. She wore a heavy
black overskirt that rustled in delicious fashion over the colored silk
skirt beneath, and a white shirt-waist, striped black, and starched to
a rattling stiffness. Her neck was swathed tight and high with a broad
ribbon of white satin, while around her waist, in place of a belt, she
wore the huge dog-collar of a St. Bernard--a chic little idea which was
all her own, and of which she was very proud.

She was as trig and trim and crisp as a crack yacht: not a pin was
loose, not a seam that did not fall in its precise right line; and with
every movement there emanated from her a barely perceptible delicious
feminine odor--an odor that was in part perfume, but mostly a subtle,
vague smell, charming beyond words, that came from her hair, her neck,
her arms--her whole sweet personality. She was nineteen years old.

She sat down to breakfast and ate heartily, though with her attention
divided between Howard--who was atrociously bad, as usual of a Sunday
morning--and her father's plate. Mr. Bessemer was as like as not to
leave the table without any breakfast at all unless his fruit, chops,
and coffee were actually thrust under his nose.

"Papum," she called, speaking clear and distinct, as though to the
deaf, "there's your coffee there at your elbow; be careful, you'll tip
it over. Victorine, push his cup further on the table. Is it strong
enough for you, Papum?"

"Eh? Ah, yes--yes--yes," murmured the old man, looking vaguely about
him; "coffee, to be sure"--and he emptied the cup at a single draught,
hardly knowing whether it was coffee or tea. "Now I'll take a roll,"
he continued, in a monotonous murmur. "Where are the rolls? Here they
are. Hot rolls are bad for my digestion--I ought to eat bread. I
think I eat too much. Where's my place in the paper?--always lose my
place in the paper. Clever editorials this fellow Eastman writes,
unbiassed by party prejudice--unbiassed--unbiassed." His voice died to
a whisper.

The breakfast proceeded, Travis supervising everything that went
forward, even giving directions to Victorine as to the hour for serving
dinner. It was while she was talking to Victorine as to this matter
that Snooky began to whine.

"Stop!"

"And tell Maggie," pursued Travis, "to fricassee her chicken, and not
to have it too well done--"

"Sto-o-op!" whined Snooky again.

"And leave the heart out for Papum. He likes the hear