in which, at once, all were united. "M'sieur will pardon the boy,"
apologised Charles in deepest humility, taking much for granted. "It
will be very warm to-day. Your _serviette_, M'sieur--it is damp.
Pardon!" He flew away and back with another napkin. "Of course, M'sieur,
the Chatham is not the Waldorf," he announced deprecatingly.
"_Parbleu_," beating himself on the forehead, "I forgot! M'sieur does
not like the Waldorf. _Eh, bien_, Paris is not New York, no." Having
sufficiently humbled Paris, he withdrew into the background, rubbing his
hands as if he were cleansing them of something unsightly. Brock spread
one of the buttered biscuits with honey and inwardly admitted that Paris
was _not_ New York.

He was a good-looking chap of thirty or thereabouts, an American to the
core,--bright-eyed, keen-witted, smooth-faced, virile. From boyhood's
earliest days he had spent a portion of his summers in Europe. Two or
three years of his life had been employed in the Beaux Arts,--fruitful
years, for Brock had not wasted his opportunities. He had gone in for
architecture and building. To-day he stood high among the younger men in
New York,--prosperous, successful, and a menace to the old cry that a
son of the rich cannot thrive in his father's domain. Nowadays he came
to the Old World for his breathing spells. He was able to combine
dawdling and development without sacrificing one for the other, wherein
lies the proof that his vacations were not akin to those taken by most
of us.

The fortnight in Paris was to be followed by a week in St. Petersburg
and a brief tour of Sweden and Norway. His stay in the gay city was
drawing to a close. That very morning he expected to book for St.
Petersburg, leaving in three days.