The Frenchman's look cleared. "Ah--! It must have been there. It is a
privilege to have met you again, sir." He held out his long, slim hand.
"I wish you would come and see me. You have my address." He motioned to
the card.

Uncle William looked down at it. "I'm startin' for home to-morrow," he
said dryly.

"Indeed! And your home is--"

Sergia interposed a graceful hand. "Good-night, M. Curie. _You_ will
come and see _me_. Mama would be glad I have found you again."

He looked down at her mistily. His gaze lingered on her face. "I shall
come, my child," he said gallantly, almost tenderly. "I shall come many
times."

"Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure." She took Uncle William's arm and
moved away to the staircase.

Uncle William's mouth opened and closed once or twice with a little
puff. When they reached the foot of the stairs he broke out. "He says
he's a Curie." He flipped the card in his hand. "I've known Arichat, man
and boy, for sixty year. The' wa'n't never any Curies there."

She looked up at him a little perplexed. "Couldn't you have forgotten?"

Uncle William shook his head. "I wish 't I had. You set a good deal o'
store by him, I can see. But I ain't likely to forget anybody that's
been brought up there. The' _was_ suthin' kind o' familiar about him,