"Why, no," Frances agreed. "What could happen? Let me tell you
about them. We took the baby cars and got off at St. Aubin's
because that especial train didn't go any farther. It's lovely
there, Mother, and plenty of lodgings to let. We walked along and
saw one house that looked pleasant, so we went up and rang and a
maid showed us into a parlor. We knew right off we didn't want to
come there, because the place was so dark and stuffy and there
were fourteen hundred family photographs and knit woolen mats and
such things around. I was going to sit down but just as I got near
the chair,--it was rather dark, you see,--something said 'Hello!'
and there was a horrid great parrot sitting on the back of the
chair. I jumped about a foot."

"You screamed, too," said Roger.

"I may have exclaimed," admitted Frances judicially. "It was not a
scream. If I had yelled, you would have known it. Well, a messy
old woman came who called me 'dear,' but when I said I didn't
believe my mother would care for the rooms, she got huffy and said
she was accustomed to rent her rooms to ladies, only she
pronounced it _lydies_.

"We left that place," went on Frances, paying no attention to the
look of silent endurance on her mother's face, "and walked some
distance without seeing anything we liked. But suddenly we came to
a tiny street going down to the sea. There were only six houses
and one had a card in the window. They faced the bay and just big
rocks were on the other side of the street. Now, listen."