asked her, on the other side, whether their
father had given her that money. She replied that he had given her
loads--she felt as if he had made his will; which led George Flack to
say that he wished the old gentleman was HIS father.

"Why you don't mean to say you want to be our brother!" Francie prattled
as they went down the Rue de la Paix.

"I should like to be Miss Delia's, if you can make that out," he
laughed.

"Well then suppose you prove it by calling me a cab," Miss
Delia returned. "I presume you and Francie don't take this for a
promenade-deck."

"Don't she feel rich?" George Flack demanded of Francie. "But we do
require a cart for our goods"; and he hailed a little yellow carriage,
which presently drew up beside the pavement. The three got into it and,
still emitting innocent pleasantries, proceeded on their way, while at
the Hotel de l'Univers et de Cheltenham Mr. Dosson wandered down into
the court again and took his place in his customary chair.

II

The court was roofed with glass; the April air was mild; the cry of
women selling violets came in from the street and, mingling with the
rich hum of Paris, seemed to bring with it faintly the odour of the
flowers. There were other odours in the place, warm succulent and
Parisian, which ranged from fried fish to burnt sugar; and there were
many things besides: little tables for the post-prandial coffee; piles
of luggage inscribed (after the initials or frequently the name) R.
P. Scudamore or D. Jackson Hodge, Philadelphia Pa., or St. Louis
Mo.; rattles of unregarded bells, flittings of tray-bearing waiters,
conversations with the second-floor windows of admonitory landladies,
arrivals of young women with coffinlike bandboxes covered with black
oil-cloth and depending from a strap, sallyings-forth of persons staying
and arrivals just afterwards of other persons to see them; together with
vague prostrations on benches of tired heads of American families.
It was to this last element that Mr. Dosson himself in some degree
contributed, but it must be added that he had not the extremely bereft
and exhausted appearance of certain of his fellows. There was an air of
ruminant resignation, of habitual accommodation in him; but you would
have guessed that he was enjoying a holiday rather than aching for a
truce, and he was not so enfeebled but that he was able to get up from
time to time and stroll through the porte cochere to have a look at the
street.