George snatched the bag, examined it hastily and then tried to conceal it
behind his own luggage. But Geraldine knows enough about hats to be able to
spot a hatbox, when put to it, through all the heavy canvas and all the
fancy labels in the world. So there was nothing more to be said about it;
and there was little more to be done about it except for George to go on
doing special messenger with it. The inner histories died down and, after a
brief silence, George affected to go to sleep.

I only woke him up once and that was to ask whether he cared to look after
the rest of my luggage for me.

When we got to Paris I explained to George that I had not meant to hurt his
feelings; there was no fellow I would more gladly entrust my odd jobs to.
Indeed Geraldine and I should want him to officiate in a similar capacity
at the coming ceremony.

A very satisfactory conclusion. I got Geraldine; Geraldine got her full
deserts--me; and if George had the misfortune to sit on the bag in the
taxi, what matter? Geraldine had acquiesced; after that who cared what
Geraldine's mother did, said, thought or wore?

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Small Boy_. "WHO'S THAT FAT MAN, DAD?"

_Dad_. "DON'T KNOW. HE LOOKS LIKE A PROFITEER."

_Small Boy_. "DON'T YOU THINK HE MUST BE ONE OF THE EXCESS PROFITEERS?"]