"You're too kind," said George Flack, taking up his hat. He smoothed it down a moment, with his glove; then he said—"I wonder if you will mind our going alone?"
"Alone?"
"I mean just you and me."
"Oh, don't you be afraid! Father and Delia have seen it about thirty times."
"That will be delightful, then. And it will help me to feel, more than anything else could make me do, that we are still old friends. I'll come at 3.15," Mr. Flack went on, but without even yet taking his departure. He asked two or three questions about the hotel, whether it were as good as last year and there were many people in it and they could keep their rooms warm; then, suddenly, in a different order and scarcely waiting for the girl's answer, he said: "And now, for instance, are they very bigoted? That's one of the things I should like to know."
"Very bigoted?"
"Ain't they tremendous Catholics—always talking about the Holy Father, and that sort of thing? I mean Mr. Probert, the old gentleman," Mr. Flack added. "And those ladies, and all the rest of them."
"They are very religious," said Francie. "They are the most religious people I ever saw. They just adore the Holy Father. They know him
