presented?"

"If she doesn't--which she probably does," said the Bonnie Lassie, "she
will find out something to her advantage when she sees me to-morrow. I'm
going home to 'phone her."

In answer to the summons, Bobbie came. She looked, I thought, as I saw
her from my bench, troubled and perplexed and softened, and glowingly
lovely. At the door of the Bonnie Lassie's house she was met with the
challenge direct.

"What have you been doing to my artistic ward?"

"Nothing," replied Bobbie with unwonted meekness, and to prove it
related the incidents of the touring-car, the supper at the Taverne
Splendide, and the encounter with the paternal colorist.

"That isn't Julien's father," said the sculptress. "He's only an
adoptive father. But Julien adores him, as he ought to. The real father,
so I've heard, was a French gentleman--"

"I don't care who his father was!" cried Bobbie. (The Bonnie Lassie's
face took on the expression of an exclamation point.) "I can't bear to
think of his having to do servant's work. And I told him so yesterday."

"Did you look like that while you were telling him?"

"Like what? I suppose so."

"And what did he do?"