face he seemed to read in terms of adulation.

"Brutus, pick up the pistol. My son, you are more amusing than I had
hoped. Indeed, Mademoiselle, perhaps the old saying is right, that the
best is in our door-yard. I have had, perhaps, an exceptional opportunity
to see the world. I have spent a longer time than I like to think
collecting material for enlivening reminiscence, but I cannot recall
having been present before at a scene with so many elements of interest.
You harbor no ill feelings, my son?"

"None that are new," I said. "Only my first impressions."

"And they are--?" He paused modestly. He might have been awaiting
a tribute.

"Father!" I remonstrated. "There is a lady present!"

"You had almost made me forget," he sighed regretfully. "You wished to
have a word with me, Mademoiselle? I am listening. No, no, my son! You
will be interested, I am sure. The door, Brutus!"

But it was not Brutus who stopped me. Mademoiselle had laid a hand on my
arm. As I looked down at her, the bitterness and chagrin I had felt began
slowly to ebb away. Her eyes met mine for a moment in thoughtful
appraisal.

"You have been kind," she said softly, "Kind, and you know you have no
reason--."

She might have continued, but my father interrupted.