thy. "That's
what she said."

"Did you cry?"

"Not me!" she scorned. "Cry? Not me! Not for no mountain like her!"

"And what," he asked, "did Lord Wychester do?"

"'Back to the side-show, Duchess!' says Lord Wychester. 'You're too
fat for decent company. My friend the Dook,' says he, 'may be partial
to fat ladies and ten-cent freaks; but _my_ taste runs to slim
blondes.'"

No amusement was excited by Lord Wychester's second sally. In the
world she knew, it would have provoked a shout of laughter. The boy's
gravity disquieted her.

"Did you laugh?" he asked.

"Everybody," she answered, pitifully, "give her the laugh."

He sighed--somewhat wistfully. "I wish," he said, "that _you_ hadn't."

"Why not!" she wondered, in genuine surprise.

"I don't know."

"Why, dear!" she exclaimed, a note of alarm in her voice. "It isn't
bad manners! Anyhow," she qualified, quick to catch her cue, "I didn't
laugh much. I hardly laughed at all. I don't believe I _did_ laugh."

"I'm glad," he said.

Then, "I'm sure of it," she ventured, boldly; and she observed with
relief that he was not incredulous.

"Did the Duchess cry?"

"Oh, my, no! 'Waiter,' says the Duchess, 'open another bottle of that
wine. I feel faint.'"

"What did Lord Wychester do then?"

"He paid for the wine." It occurred to her that she might now surely
delight him. "Then he wanted to buy a bottle for me," she continued,
eagerly, "just to spite the Duchess. 'If _she_ can have wine,' says
he, 'there isn't no good reason why _you_ got to go dry.' But I
couldn't see it. 'Oh, come on!' says he. 'What's the matter with you?
Have a drink.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he." She
drew the boy a little closer, and, in the pause she patted his hand.
"'Because,' says I," she whispered, tenderly, "'I got a son; and I
_don't want him to do no drinking when he grows up_!'" She paused
again--that the effect of the words and of the caress might not be
interrupted. "'Come off!' says Lord Wychester," she went on; "'you
haven't got no son.' 'You wouldn't think to look at me,' says I, 'that
I got a son seven years old the twenty-third of last month.' 'To the
tall timber!' says he. 'You're too young and pretty. I'll give you a
thousand dollars for a kiss.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?'
says he. 'Because,' says I, 'you don't.' 'I'll give you two
thousand,' says he."

She was interrupted by the boy; his arms were anxiously