"Good night!" murmured Kitty. "If there is one kind of person in the
world dad considers wholly useless and incompetent, it's an artist or a
poet."

"But this artist makes fifteen thousand and sometimes twenty thousand
the year."

"Then he's no artist. What is his name?"

"Forbes, J. Mortimer Forbes."

"Oh. The pretty-cover man."

"My dear, he is one of the nicest young men in New York. His family is
one of the best, and he goes everywhere. And but for his
kindness. . . ."

"What?"

"Some day I'll tell you the story. Here we go! Good-by, England!"

"Good-by, sapphires!" said Kitty, so low that the other did not hear
her.

At dinner Thomas was called to account by the chief steward for
permitting his thumb to connect with the soup. But what would you,
with Titian and Greuse smiling a soft "Thank you!" for everything you
did for them?