at you from all corners.

Orson J. and Mrs. Hubbell had never been in Europe before, and they
enjoyed themselves enormously. That is to say, Mrs. Orson J. did, and
Orson, seeing her happy, enjoyed himself vicariously. His hand slid in
and out of his inexhaustible pocket almost automatically now. And "How
much?" was his favourite locution. They went everywhere, did everything.
Mary boasted a pretty fair French. Mrs. Hubbell conversed in the
various languages of Europe by speaking pidgin English very loud, and
omitting all verbs, articles, adverbs, and other cumbersome
superfluities. Thus, to the _fille de chambre_.

"Me out now you beds." The red-cheeked one from the provinces
understood, in some miraculous way, that Mrs. Hubbell was now going out
and that the beds could be made and the rooms tidied.

They reached Nice in February and plunged into its gaieties. "Just
think!" exclaimed Mrs. Hubbell rapturously, "only three francs for a
facial or a manicure and two for a marcel. It's like finding them."

"If the Mediterranean gets any bluer," said Mary, "I don't think I can
stand it, it's so lovely."

Mrs. Hubbell, at tea, expressed a desire to dance. Mary, at tea, desired
to dance but didn't express it. Orson J. loathed tea; and the early
draying business had somewhat unfitted his sturdy legs for the lighter
movements of the dance. But he wanted only their happiness. So he looked
about a bit, and asked some questions, and came back.

"Seems there's a lot of young chaps who make a business of dancing with
the women-folks who haven't dancing men along. Hotel hires 'em. Funny to
us but I guess it's all right, and quite the thing around here. You pay
'em so much a dance, or so much an afternoon. You girls want to try
it?"

"I do," said Mrs. Orson J. Hubbell. "It doesn't sound respectable. Then
that's what all those thin little chaps are who have been dancing with
those pretty American girls. They're sort of ratty looking, aren't they?
What do they call 'em? That's a nice-looking one, over there--no,
no!--dancing with the girl in grey, I mean. If that's one I'd like to
dance with him, Orson. Good land, what would the Winnebago ladies say!
What do they call 'em, I wonder."

Mary had been gazing very intently at the nice-looking one over there
who was dancing with the girl in grey. She answered her mother's
question, still gazing at him. "They call them gigolos," she said,
slowly. Then, "Get that one Dad, will you, if