ments, any evidence, for any success in any walk of life, how could he have borne to devote himself, as he had promised to do, to that Corsican lady, while the Girl, the Girl, was in the room? And he perceived now that he should not even use the information he already had. It did not seem fitting that one to whom the Girl stooped to speak, for ever so brief a moment, should play the part of a spy—in however good a cause.
"Back already?" said the old gentleman.
"Thank you—my business is completed."
The young man resumed his brown boots.
"Now, Papa," said the Girl, "just go right along and do your devoirs in there—and I'll stay and talk to him—"
The father went obediently.
"Have you quarrelled with her, then?" asked the Girl, her eyes on the diamond buckles of her satin shoes.
He told her everything—or nearly.
"Well," she said decisively, "I'm glad you're out of it, anyway. Don't worry about it. It's a nasty trade. Papa'll find you a berth. Come out to the States and edit one of his papers!"
