He had feared,
perhaps, that they would not enter thoroughly into the spirit of the
thing--women, even American women, are sometimes strangely deficient in
the sense of humour. But they had both been struck by their host's
impressive obsequiousness--a very orgasm of servility, which Pelletan
had hitherto reserved for personages of the blood royal.
"What ails the man?" Susie had asked at dinner the night before, her
eyes on Monsieur Pelletan's writhing form. "He seems to have the
stomach-ache."
"He is probably fishing for a tip," said Nell. "It seems to me that
I've seen those symptoms before in a less violent form."
"Don't you tip him," commanded their father. "I'll attend to all that,"
and he beckoned to Pelletan with his finger and whispered a rapid
sentence in his ear.
"What did you say to him, dad?" inquired Sue, gazing in some
astonishment after their host's retreating coat-tails.
"I told him to go 'way back and sit down," answered Rushford, going
calmly on with his meal.
"Dad, is it true that Lord Vernon is to arrive to-morrow morning?"
"I suppose so."
"In a ship of war?"
"Yes--I've heard that, too."
"You'll take us down to the beach, won't you, dad?"
"What! A free-born American citizen go toadying after the English
aristocracy!"
"But we'll need a cicerone, dad.
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