, then?"

The girl began to hum, as she powdered her nose with a white glove,
lying in a powder box.

"You remember _le beau brun_?"

"The young man in Paris you made so many enquiries about at Ritz's? Is
he here?"

"He is. I've just had lunch with him. Oh, there are lots of things to
tell. He is a good boy."

"How, good? You told him we had had losses?"

"I painted a sad picture. He was most sympathetic."

"To what extent?"

"_Chere maman!_ One would think we were vulgar adventuresses. We are
not. He respects me, this dear young man, and it is right that he
should. I deserve to be respected. You know the fable about the dog who
dropped his meat in the water, trying to snap at its reflection? Well,
I don't ask strangers for loans. I make my impression. Monsieur Hugh
Egerton is my friend--at present. Later, he will be what I choose. And
most certainly I shall choose him for a husband. What luck, meeting him
again! It is time I settled down."

"They said at Ritz's that he was one of the young millionaires, well
known already in America," the fat woman reflected aloud. "It is a good
thing that I have brought you up well, Julie, and that you are pretty."

"Yes, it is a good thing that I am pretty," repeated the girl. "We have
had many hopes often before, but this seems to be the most promising. I
think it is very promising indeed, and I don't mean to let it slip."

She turned her back to the easy chair, and opened the pink bag. As the
woman talked on, she secretly counted out the money. There were more
than ten thousand francs in mille notes and others of smaller
denominations. Quietly she put them away in the top of a travelling box,
which she locked. Then she noticed the letter which the child had given
her, still lying on the dressing table, with her gloves.

"Here's something from _la belle Americaine_, upstairs," said she. "A
_billet doux_."

"A dun," exclaimed the woman.

"No doubt. It can be nothing else."

"Well, we can't pay."

"No, we can't pay," said the girl, looking at the locked box.

"Let me see, how much was it she lent?"

"Two hundred francs, I think. We told her we'd give it back in a week.
That's nearly a month ago."

"Serve her right for trusting strangers. The saints alone know when
she'll see her money again. She shouldn't be so soft hearted. It
doesn't pay in these days."

"Neither do we--when we can help it."

They both laughed.

"But when you are Madame--let me see, wha